Where darkness lies
by kay245
Summary: Post S3, Molly receives an interestig visit at the morgue that reveals that she knows much more about Jim from IT than she ever let on. Will this be the end of her friendship with Sherlock or will she tempt him to the dark side? Warning: dark!molly and twisted yet canon-compliant revelations (written as a serie of one-shots with loose plot - mature because they're all sociopaths).
1. One happy return

_I don't own anything except for my twisted mind but thanks for Moffat, Gatiss and Co to provide me with such wonderful material to obsess over._

Did you miss me? Did you miss me?

When Molly saw the little gimmick invade the ever-on TV at Bart's, she was in the middle of doing herself a cup of tea. Of course, probably as most of British people assisting to the drama, her heart lurched and her grip on her boiling cup of tea tightened. She swore as the too hot temperature made her release the mug and it fell to the ground. She kept muttering curses as she knelt down to scoop the shards of ceramic and clean the mess. This was obviously what every ordinary citizen would have done in the circumstances. However, what was the least of all what any other common people would have done was the following.

"So, did you?" asked an Irish tinted voice behind her, the words taking an almost sing-songy melody to them.

There, most people would have frozen in fright and shock, would have tried to flee or at least broken into a cold sweat. Molly Hooper, on the other hand, flipped her hair on the side as she turned her face toward the intruder, shooting him an aggravated look before resuming her task of removing the shards from the floor.

"Jim, don't be smart." She admonished in a calm voice. She got up and discarded the pieces of her mug in the trash bin. And then, she had the most genuine and happiest smile in her face as she went to take the man in her arms. "Of course, silly, I missed you!"

At that, the demeanour of the most fashionable psychopath changed drastically. A large smile painted on his face, he fully embraced the small woman in front of him, resting his head on the top of hers. Well, he wasn't as tall as one Consulting Detective, but it didn't matter as the pathologist was on the small side of scale and that she had flat pumps as she had to stay several hours on stand. Jim let his psychopathic persona melt away for a few minutes for a more tender, if really tiny, part of him. Molly had always been the one constant in his life and to see that she had forgiven him was like lifting an excruciating stone from his little fragile dark heart. However, they couldn't stay like this. It wouldn't do to have people walk in on them as they surely wouldn't understand how Sherlock Holmes' staunchest supporter would be in the arms of his arch enemy.

Somewhat awkwardly, they disengaged from the hug. Moriarty's colder side took over as evidenced by the way he surveyed his brand new Westwood suit. On the other hand, Molly was composed but couldn't repress a smile as she shot a glance at the TV.

"Thank you." She said quietly, her eyes catching those of the man in front of her. "A little bit dramatic but I guess quite effective."

"Everything for my little sis, of course." Said Jim sweetly. "Do you know on which mission he was sent on?" he asked, curiosity prevailing.

"No, just that he would be dead in 6 months. What was it?" she asked, a sense of dread finally catching up with her. Jim was a lot of things but a fool, surely not. She knew that for him to actually reach out physically to her, he'd need to have a good reason. And for a reason to be good for a psychopath like him, it had to be dire indeed.

"Eastern Europe. Her playground, not mine." Answered Jim serious as he never was.

At those words, Molly Hooper blanched. Another stone piled on her heart as the carefully constructed wall around the darkest part of her mind started grumbling. No, this couldn't be. They'd always been careful, she and Jim. Always managed to stay out of her radar. Even when playing at consulting criminal, Jim had always avoided crossing path with _her_. And as for herself, well she was a pathologist with a little ripper gig on the side, not something that would interest the criminal mastermind, whom they'd been hiding from for almost all of their lives. And finally, it clicked inside her head. Of course, how foolish Sherlock had been. But mostly, how foolish she had been. Could she have anticipated what would happen when she'd the littlest at all nudged Mary toward John? Once again, she blanched and her large eyes became pensive.

"It's Magnussen, isn't it? All that time, he was in contact with her. Am I right?" Once the first piece had slotted in the right place, everything of the hidden ropes had become visible. Of course. Magnussen had never been the unique player in this game. He'd just been the perfect puppet for a master that was even more intelligent, cunning and ruthless than she and her brother were.

As Molly was deep in thoughts, probably having everything from the past years click in place, Jim finally broke from his unnatural stillness. A dangerous and crazy glint came to his eyes. He loved his sister, truly. Apart from their father, she'd been the one thing that had tethered him to sanity, it seemed. And now, because of her abnormal sentimentality concerning a few people – and yes, mostly because of Sherlock, a man he'd loathed since the moment he saw his sister blush at his name – they might be discovered. So, as every time he felt an anger that he wasn't that great at managing, he returned to his dramatic and unhinged ways, his voice sing-songing words at the strangest times.

"Yes, sis. Mommy has come back for us! And all of this, thanks to your ever so-generous heart!"


	2. What do you need?

Sherlock made his way to his bedroom. It had been four days now and still no news from Molly. She'd been in St Bart's the moment Moriarty's gimmick was on the telly and 5 minutes later, she was gone. She had as surely disappeared as if she'd been a mirage. Nothing seemed missing from her flat, Toby had been adopted by an elderly neighbour years ago it seems, quite at the same time as when she'd became engaged. None of her friends knew where she were and Meat Dagger had moved away after the break-up and there was no way to contact him. She had just vanished in the air. Sherlock couldn't help but feel the dread creeping in on him as he had reviewed the last capture that he had from her. She was exiting from St Bart, at her usual brisk pace. It would have been completely normal if not for a shadow at the angle of the camera. There was no logic to it but Sherlock was absolutely sure that this shadow was Moriarty. Obviously, the man must have known what Molly represented to him. A safe haven, a constant in his life, his home away from home as once put it Mycroft. But, if the criminal mastermind had known, why wasn't there a clever game of some kind? Something to make him run in circles? Sherlock knew he was currently exhausting himself searching for Molly but couldn't muster the resolve to let it drop.

The exhaustion was almost there, Sherlock didn't even get out of his clothes before dropping into his bed. He couldn't go on like this. He needed sleep. He needed peace in his mind. But whenever he closed his eyes, she was there in his mind palace and soon enough, horrible musings will follow and he'd open his eyes drenched in cold swear. However, he was too tired right now to avoid the nightmares that would come. He sighed, closed his eyes and smelled instantly the perfume of salty lemons with just a hint of vanilla. Molly, he almost groaned at the realness of the scent. His mind was starting to play tricks on him and soon enough, it would take a turn for the worse. But as he took another breath, he could also distinctly detect the notes of Molly's perfume and finally it dawned on him. He jerked back sitting up on his bed and his eyes went to the dark corner just next to his wardrobe.

There, seated on an armchair, dressed in a black outfit, was the pathologist he was looking for. Sherlock's eyes widened and for just a minute his eyes went to the element table that was hung at the wall.

"Looking for this?" asked Molly, her eyes cold as she showed the needle and little aluminium foil in her hands.

She sighed at Sherlock's startled look. The detective however quickly composed himself but still couldn't help but shooting glance between the woman and the drug.

"You're not high and hallucinating Sherlock." Added Molly. "If you were, I'd already be slapping you, don't you think?"

"Seemed possible. After all, I couldn't locate you in all London, and here you are in my room, naked in my Belstaff. If I'm not high, I suppose I should worry about the state of my sanity." Replied carefully Sherlock.

At that, Molly eyebrow shot up and she looked amused. Sherlock had to refrain from doing a double take. This was not his pathologist. Yes, Molly's had been doing better around him but now, she exuded confidence and her eyes glittered with undisguised cleverness. She looked like a much better version of the Woman, if truth be told. While the thought passed fleetingly in his mind, Molly got up and turned on herself. Now, Sherlock could discern much more, from the beautiful wavy side-do to the glinting diamonds at her ears and the velvety sandals at her feet. Yes, an improved version of Irene Adler. Except for the nails. Instead of the deep red on long sharp nails, Molly's practically short ones were done in unforgiving black.

"You see, not a Belstaff." Interrupted Molly as she finished turning on herself.

"Well, I always miss something don't I? But still, you'll be hard pressed to convince me that this impersonation of the Woman is not a figment of a drug-addled mind." Replied Sherlock, as he perused his pathologist.

Molly's face scrunched in something like deep loathing for the briefest instant before composing itself back into a cool mask. This smallest moment finally broke whatever doubts Sherlock might have harboured. In his mind palace, never would have Molly show any trace of jealousy regarding Irene Adler. So, this was neither his mind palace, neither a hallucination due to drug use. When the truth finally caught up with him, Molly was there, looking at him, her head cocked on the side.

"Ah, I see, that you haven't burnt all your grey cells after all. Glad to have you back, Sherlock." Said Molly.

Sherlock's eyes took a predatory edge. He was in front of the most dangerous puzzle of all as he looked over at his pathologist. Of course, now, she wasn't his pathologist anymore. There was something almost alien in her and yet, he could sometime catch glimpses of his long-time friend.

"I guess, this time I missed something pretty big." He said, his mind roaming furiously to see what he might have missed about the woman he had been sure he'd known inside and out for the past 8 years. The answer was actually pretty easy, after all there was only one thing that had made Molly stand apart from all other. "Moriarty." He whispered to himself.

"Yes. Now, you understand why you have to stop looking for me." Nodded Molly to him.

"Why does he have on you? Why didn't you come to me?" asked almost angrily Sherlock. This was Mary's situation all over again. Why did these bloody females never come to him for help?

Molly's face took a sad edge and she sat down on the bed next to Sherlock. He hadn't really moved except from sitting up against the headboard when he saw her. Now, he was on the verge of jumping from the bed and starting to pace all around. Molly didn't want that, much because she knew that a false step and her brother would put a bullet through the skull of her detective. The angle to do so from the roof of the other building was stiff but not unmanageable.

"Ah Sherlock, don't you see? There is nothing you can do to help, not for this." She said wistfully. "This is not from Belstaff." She kept on, her eyes glancing at the window. "This is Westwood."

At the words, Sherlock froze. He took in the elegant black wrap-dress. High quality, with a somewhat baroque and rock'n roll edge to it. Of course. Westwood. Moriarty. Now, the intimacy between the two made sense. Why the criminal mastermind had missed her also. He'd never made a mistake, he'd just not put a bullet to someone close to him.

"So, you, Moriarty? Was it a play from the beginning?" he asked, cautiously keeping his features in a disinterested mask. He couldn't let his hurt at being played open on his face. Not with those formidable foes.

"No, I always remained separate from whatever Jim was doing, that was the point in becoming a pathologist at St Bart." She sighed heavily. "But then you came, and well, the rest is history." Another sigh. "You have to let it go. Let me go." She finished softly.

"Why? So you can come back and put a bullet in the brain of my friends, your friends?" he sneered suddenly, angry at his pathologist for the hurt she'd caused.

"No, we won't come back. Believe it or not, the world doesn't revolve around you." She replied irritated.

"Yes, I might have been made aware of that fact. So, what are you saying? That there is a bogeyman worse than your brother that is after you?" he haughtily joked.

Molly didn't say anything but got up. He could have dismissed her sudden stiffness for exasperation but he still was Sherlock Holmes and he was sufficiently aware to know he'd never seen this emotion play before on her face. And suddenly, he knew. She was afraid. There was a monster after her and her brother. Later, he would wonder if anything would have been different if he hadn't uttered the four little words. Most of the times he didn't care to be honest. So there he went, seized her wrist in his hand and asked:

"What do you need?"

"Sh-sh-sherlock." Molly stuttered. "I'm not who you think I am." She gasped as she jerked on her imprisoned wrist.

But Sherlock didn't let her leave and tightened his grip on her. Then, he locked eyes with her and asked again, softly but with steel resolve:

"What do you need?"


	3. Flashback: I knew him, he was nice

_Here is a little flashback at Molly and Sherlock's interactions in A Study in Pink. Warning:in this chapter we see more of Molly's dark side and the interaction of Sherlock, while following strictly what we see on screen is a little different when we get inside Molly's head. Also, this has not been thoroughly edited as I've been a little short on time. Hope you'll like it anyway.  
_

 _Once again, I don't own anything and the dialogue is taken directly from A Study in Pink. Thanks to Moffat, Gatiss and Co for their creations (and ACD of course)._

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When Molly Hooper had gone to work that day, she'd been in a chipper state. Her brother had texted her so they could meet sometime later that week and her previous night had been an industrious but successful delight. Normally, if everything went according to plan, she'd have a day filled with beautiful autopsies, one of which she was eagerly waiting for. So, she decided that today, she would go quite out of character and use some lipstick. Dear, how she missed being able to use a reasonable amount of make-up, because let's be honest, her current routine was definitely not what magazine meant when they talked about nude. However, she couldn't change drastically her style as it had been her chosen identity for the last two years. Most of all, she couldn't change it now or the new unwanted – in her opinion – addition to the lab would certainly notice it. She hadn't forged all these years a persona of a mouse to be exposed by a certain consulting detective. She shook her head as she made her way from the tube station to Bart's. She didn't want to acknowledge her mixed feelings regarding one Sherlock Holmes. The man was infuriating and yet, he had a mind like of which she very rarely seen. She was at times almost fascinated by it as it regularly managed to examine and get the story from forensic evidence even faster than her. It was quite unprecedented. Molly chewed on her lip. No, she had to keep her distances from the man and she definitely needed to convince Mike Stamford that she wasn't the good replacement for him when it came to accommodating Sherlock Holmes. Moreover when one knew that he had strong ties to high positioned people in the wrong part of the British Government – meaning the part that could pose a problem to her and her brother. But, not to taint her good moods, Molly decided not to dwell on that particular problem. Which was quite easy to do as she found that her first autopsy was an old orderly who'd been close to retirement and had worked at Bart's. She hadn't expected that it would be so easy to be the one to do the PM on her own victim, but probably Mike Stamford wanted to make it to her for dropping one obnoxious detective on her increasingly more often. She had said she wanted to practice more on her analysing cause of deaths. Not only to improve her professional skills but also her leisure's modus operandi.

As it was, Molly Hooper was in a delightful mood, once she'd performed the autopsy one Stan Smith, 67. The cause of death appeared to be natural causes, her use of curare skilful enough to pass for a stroke. She sighed happily at that, knowing that nobody would ever doubt her analysis. She wasn't the youngest pathologist at the institution for nothing and she prepared herself for a happy celebratory lunch when she heard a swooping motion behind her. When she turned, she found herself next to Sherlock Holmes and her breath caught as she remarked once again how handsome he was. It was strange, but she seemed to forget about his physical appearance in his absence to focus on his mind only to have it crashing and shortcutting her mental defences whenever he was in front of her. So, she found herself, genuinely gasping as the mousy impressed school girl she was supposed to be impersonating – and dammit, what if that wasn't irritating.

"Molly, Mike is not here and I need to perform an experiment." Said the detective, only briefly glancing at her and not seeming to bother deducing her – whatever exasperation she might have at her illogical responses to the detective, she couldn't deny that it actually helped her.

"Hmm… Yes, of course. What is it?" she asked cautiously.

"I need a corpse, just in, if possible. For an experiment on bruising after death." Replied Sherlock curtly.

Molly quickly thought about the corpses that she could give him access to. Unfortunately, she could already dismiss all those that were part of a current investigation as well as those who were scheduled for medical students to practice. And the others were almost all too old to have a pattern of bruising to develop. Except for… Would she dare? Would she actually, give one of her victims to Sherlock Holmes to experiment on? It would be a risk. A big risk. What if he deduced that his cause of death was really far from natural? But, suddenly, the thrill of the game took her. It wasn't often, but much like her brother, she sometimes found herself yearning for some challenge, and trying to fool one of the most brilliant forensic minds she'd known was certainly a challenge. She made up her mind and finally decided to take that gamble.

"Yes, I think that I have someone." Molly went to the refrigerated drawers used to stock the dead bodies and opened the one for Stan Smith. She took the positioned the body bad into the gurney and took it to Sherlock. She let it open the body bag as she went to close the refrigerated drawer.

"How fresh?" asked the detective.

"Just in, 67, natural causes." She said, the adrenaline pumping through her veins as she uttered the lie. Would Holmes see it? Would he call her on it?

As the detective didn't seem to react to her statement, she couldn't help but grin stupidly at the fact that she had managed to get one on him. She knew she must look ridiculous but, really, when was the last time she had that much fun? She decided to tempt chance one more time and added:

"Used to work here." Yes, he did and also made a little money on the side by organising and covering sexual assaults on underage cardiac patients when they were still heavily sedated from their surgery, silently added Molly in her head. "I knew him." More like she researched and stalked him, but nonetheless. "He was nice." Especially, when he was suffocating as the fear and helplessness in his eyes made her heart sing with joy.

Her glee must have been apparent and she couldn't help but feel a little light-heated and breathy as she looked at Sherlock studying her victim. Fortunately, the man didn't pay much attention to her whatsoever.

"Fine. We'll start with a riding crop.' He said with a quick smile that was his way to dismiss her.

She left the morgue but lingered next to the overlooking window to have a look at the consulting detective as he brutally whipped the corpse. She couldn't help but wince sometimes as the dark haired man disfigured her perfect little murder piece. Not to forget that she could almost see some of her beautiful stitches crack open under the force of the assault. All that work gone to waste… However, some part of her was mesmerised by the show of carefully place blows and the frenzy with which Holmes worked the corpse. His attention didn't waver and cautiously chose where he wanted the bruises to form and he differed the pattern as to have distinct patterns to study. It almost left her breathless at the dedication of the man. At the small sigh that left her lips, she froze. This was not her. She wasn't taken by demonstration of strength like a stupid schoolgirl. No and she never was. A little disturbed, she blushed and fidgeted a little before making her way to the loo. She let some water flow on her wrist half a minute, a method she knew would calm and cool her down. As she dried her hands, she noticed that her lipstick had been bitten away. She frowned and reapplied a natural dark rose to her lips. After all, she'd not only realised the perfect murder, she'd gotten away with it under the scrutiny of the great consulting detective nonetheless.

When she came back in the morgue, Holmes was finishing with last quick strokes. She couldn't help but smile and taunt:

"So, bad day was it?" She giggled at the end. Of course, the man didn't know it but a serial killer and her victim had just passed under his radar.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me." Said the consulting detective, not looking at her, just glancing at his phone and then noting something on a black little book.

Her smile froze slightly at that. What if he had noticed something? She suddenly worried. What had he noted in the book? The impulse to have a look at it was almost overwhelming and she quickly devised a way to get access to the man's jacket without him taking offense:

"Listen, I was wondering. Maybe later, when you're finished…" she started, as the plan formed in her head. Yes, a proposition of coffee and then, an incident where she'd soak his jacket. Old trick but still working, especially since he thought she was a pathetic lovesick female.

"You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before." He quickly interrupted, his voice taking the slow edge it did whenever he was deducing some puzzle.

She stopped, her mind suddenly in turmoil at the statement. Could he have noticed the link between the lipstick and the corpse? She had to calm herself before giving in to paranoia, so she took a breath and timidly answered:

"I… err… I refreshed it a bit." She replied first a little taken aback and then sunnily, hoping that he would take it as a woman's frivolity rather than a clue at her darker hobbies. At the condescending look he gave her, she knew she succeeded.

"Sorry, you were saying?" he cut again dismissively this time.

This erased any doubts she still had and she was suddenly more relaxed. She still wanted to know what was in this bloody black notebook but now, when she came to think of it, it would be interesting to discuss with the detective about his experiments. She did like to see how his mind worked, after all.

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?" she clearly stated, somewhat quite eager to go out with the dark haired man.

"Black. Two sugars please. I'll be upstairs." He quickly replied, again with the small smile that dismissed her as an efficient but insignificant servant.

She stood still there in the morgue as the surprise and some disappointment washed over her. The detective had ambled out of the morgue, not looking back nor saying thank you as she muttered a small OK.

In the following hours, she found herself thinking back at the events that had played in the morgue and after she brought the detective the coffee. The rude comment about the size of her mouth and his unexplainable obsession about her lipstick. It had even taken precedence over the deductions he'd been making about the PTSDed soldier back from whatever warzone England was currently engaged in. But she couldn't compute this behaviour with the cold dismissal he'd done in the morgue. The fact irritated her. She also couldn't deny that she'd felt the rejection somewhat deeply as whenever she thought of it, she'd feel the sting of it. She was also totally dejected at her own attitude. Yes, she wanted to maintain a low profile but to be let herself act as a pushover just turned her stomach the wrong way. Worse, Mike had finally decided that she'd be the one to babysit the man despite her arguments, his own revolving around the fact that Sherlock didn't reject her work as often as the others' and that she seemed not to take too harshly his comments. So, all in all, her subdued behaviour had quite played against her that day.

At the end of her shift, she got a last look at the morgue to make sure everything was quite set for the next pathologists on duty. She went a last time at the drawer containing Stan Smith and opened it. It wasn't a good idea. Why should she pay attention to him more than any others? It would be suspicious to all. Nonetheless, she opened the body bag and surveyed the pattern the bruises had formed. With a professional eye, she weighted the strength of the blows and the imprints they'd made on the cold flesh. She couldn't resist but follow one particular bruise with her finger. The work was… remarkable. At the thought, she felt a quickening of her heart and a squeeze deep inside her lower stomach. She knew that sensation, arousal. Startled, she jerked her finger away from the corpse. She quickly zipped the body bag and put him back in his drawer. She left the morgue and started marching quickly to take the tube, feeling a deep imbalance within her. Fortunately, as she'd arrived at her home, she'd had discounted necrophilia as the source of the arousal. She shuddered at the thought. She'd always found that kink particularly disgusting when one considered the decomposition processes happening in bodies once the brain stopped keeping it alive, and was quite relieved that she wasn't one for that perversion. But it also left her with a most startling and disturbing realisation, the arousal she felt had not been because of the body but what had been done to it. More precisely, the clinical and methodical way one certain detective had proceeded to prove his theory. For once, she consciously made herself remember the appearance of said detective. Dark curls, translucent skin, quicksilver eyes but most of all, quick-witted, absolutely gorgeous, fast-processing mind. Her breath hitched as it did every time she met him. Yes, here was the proof. She was, at her utter disbelief, attracted to Sherlock Holmes. That night she went to bed and instead of planning murders in her head, she found her imagination lingering on tall, dark detectives that insulted her while obsessing over her wear of make-up.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSH

 _For those who are surprised by Molly's statement of Sherlock interrupting his deducing to focus on her, it is absolutely true (I was a little taken aback myself but after rewatching several times the scene, I'm quite sure). As soon as Molly enters with his coffee, he cuts off his deductions about John and focuses on her instead and starts again the conversation as she leaves the room. Now, what we can make of this, I know when it comes to this story but as to what happens in the serie's creators' head, I couldn't say._


	4. Victoria

_Hello all, I hope that you liked the flashback in last chapter. There will be other but we're now back to the current timeline._

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Sherlock had gone back to his usual self. That's what everyone thought. Except now he was much more withdrawn, misanthropic and sarcastic. There had been a certain softness that had developed throughout the years that was now missing. It worried Mycroft, it worried Lestrade, it worried John. It also worried Mary but she kept her mouth shut about it. As for John, after a few inquisitive attempts at discussing the Molly situation – it was what they called it now, her sudden disappearance, the Molly situation – had finally given up. All of his inquiries had been met with rebukes and some sort of concrete wall made by the words: she's alive and well. John had wondered if Mycroft had set up some sort of new identity for Molly but couldn't see why he would have let his brother drown in crazy for four days before letting him know. Right now, nobody knew about Molly's whereabouts except, it seemed the detective and this one wasn't ready to share. John and Mary made a point to visit him every day after work. The detective seemed alert and sane, not resorting to drugs – a few swift search and destroy missions had demonstrated that the flat was clean of opiates. Yet, there was a darkness and melancholy in him that John had never witnessed before. Even the Adler case hadn't seem to affect the man so deeply. When he had discussed it with Mycroft – during one of the search and destroy missions, to be exact, Sherlock retreated in his mind palace as if he couldn't be bothered, the only answer of the man had been a sighed "Well, he barely knew Adler after all".

Yet, it would be one of John's and Mary's visits that Sherlock would find the lead he was looking for. Oh, Molly might have declined his offer for help, but it hadn't affected his resolution. He would help her, this was a case and he would take it. While it had seemed that he'd accepted her answer, he'd just bidden his time for when he would be able to intervene. After all, he wouldn't have been of help if dead and as tired as he'd been when she had visited him, he had still noticed the few quick, worried glances she'd shot the window. Not too difficult to deduce that there was some sharp shooter with his gun trained on him from the next building's rooftop. So when she argued about John's safety, about Mary's safety and the fact that they both deserved to go back to a life without so inherent danger, that they deserved the chance to move on from the past, he had pretended to agree. Now, he was plotting his next move but he was stumped. He had to give the Moriarty siblings one thing, they were good at disappearing without leaving any clues. As was his habit those past few days, he was lying in the settee, his hands steepled under his chin, trying to find a solution to this incredible complex maze. Mary and John had started discussing between themselves, the noise somewhat soothing. Suddenly, there was a louder shard of voice:

"I don't like it, Mary! I don't see why you're so stubborn about this. I don't like it, we should move on to another name!" exclaimed John to his wife, suddenly getting up from his chair.

Sherlock turned his head towards his friends and tried to understand what was causing such a rift between the two spouses.

"John. I told you. Victoria is someone who meant a lot to me. I wouldn't be here with you if not for her." Replied angrily Mary.

"Really? I don't recall meeting someone named Victoria and unless it was your mother or grand-mother's name, I don't see why we should bring the bloody past into our future." Spat, John getting himself worked up.

"If you really want to have a domestic, would you be kind enough to do it in your own sitting room? Or do you want to set up some kind of tradition to have all your disagreements here?" sneered Sherlock at his two friends. Dear God. And this was the chance that Mary and John deserved? he angrily asked into his empty mind palace, hoping for the silhouette of Molly Hooper to appear in front of him. It didn't.

The army doctor and his wife looked guiltily at him and shut up. The argument between the two was obviously not resolved but at least, they would not pursue it in front of the detective. Mary got up from John's chair, where she was seated and said she'd prepare some tea. As Sherlock settled again in the settee, ready to go back to his thoughts, John decided to ask:

"Sherlock. Sorry about this. It's just that Mary insists on this name, Victoria. It's having me going bonkers! But she wouldn't budge! Says that this Victoria person is incredibly important somehow. Yet, I don't recall her inviting any Victoria to the wedding, did she? And I don't want anything from the past tainting our new chance together." Rambled John, still upset with his wife.

Sherlock, who'd been on the verge of telling his best friend to shut up when the words of his best friend finally hit him. Victoria. As a matter of fact, there had been one person at John's wedding, named Victoria. Except it was her middle name and she was better known under the nickname Molly. And as it always did, like a little key in a mechanism, the name started a chain reaction that had all the puzzle pieces rearranging themselves until everything was finally clear. Molly's words, they deserve a chance to move on from the past. Whose past if not for Mary's? Molly had known about Mary's secret. She'd been the one that made it possible for Mary to be there with John. Of course, as Moriarty's sister, she'd know about forging identities such as the one Mary would have needed to escape her old life. Now, it seemed so obvious.

"John, would you mind checking on Mrs. Hudson? I think my experiment might have adverse reactions when mixed with her herbal soothers." asked Sherlock.

John became red and angrily grumbled about gits that shouldn't be allowed near people and left hastily to check on Mrs. Hudson. This was the last of her husband that Mary saw as she came back to the sitting room with the pot of tea. As soon as John was out of the room, Sherlock quickly sat up and fixed his gaze on Mary.

"Now, that we're alone, Mrs. Watson. Where. Is. She?" asked Sherlock in a low, dangerous voice.

Mary froze. Sherlock calling her Mrs. Watson never bode well. And his question: he figured it on.

"I don't know, Sherlock. You know she's gone." She tried, looking at Sherlock to see if he believed her.

"Oh Mrs. Watson, you're a formidable liar but you have your own tells. Now, I hate to repeat myself. Where is Molly Hooper?" growled Sherlock.

"As I said, I don't know." Replied softly Mary, trying not to pay too much attention to Sherlock's icy use of her title. She'd never seen him that furious.

"You owe me! You'll tell me what I need to know." Said Sherlock, his voice taking a lethal tone.

And finally, Mary relented. She did owe him. She'd almost killed him and he'd gone to his death for her and John. She did owe him. Anyway, Molly had said "for emergencies". If Sherlock Holmes becoming mad wasn't an emergency, she didn't know what would be one.

"I assure you, Sherlock, I don't know where she is." She started. "But I have a phone number, if I needed to contact her." She quickly added after the detective sent her a murderous look. Mary, took out her phone from her jean's pocket and handed it to Sherlock. "It's under Berta Shue." She finished, before sitting next to the dark curled man.

As he looked at the name and phone number, Mary saw the softest expression cross over Sherlock's face.

"She always did love Shubert." He whispered. "Especially The maiden and Death." he softly added, his voice almost longing as he referenced the musical piece.

But the expression fled, as he took out his own phone and dialled a number.

"Mycroft, I have a request for you. I need you to trace a phone number." Sherlock clipped.


	5. Flashback: I like her

_As always, I don't own anything._

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHS

When Molly entered the hotel room, she had to fight to keep from yawning. Dear Lord, the week had been such a blur. There had been so much work, what with the serial murdering and experiments, not all of which had been her doing. Moreover, there had been that stupid infatuation that she'd just realised. Not only was it with the one man she couldn't just go and screw to get him out of her system, he was a bloody detective and a good one at that, who, in close quarters, might very well find out that she wasn't entirely what she pretended to be. So, for all her efforts and her very satisfying win over him, she just had to endure the quickening of heart and breath at his sight, the idle musing about his whereabouts and worst of all indignities, the tossing at night thinking of him. Reaching behind her to massage her right shoulder that had tightened into a knot, she sighed deeply before taking a deep in breath to clear her mind.

"Am I such bad company that I bore you that much?" asked behind her a dark-haired man with deep brown eyes much like hers.

Already, Molly felt her worry being chased away by the voice of her brother, her only true friend. She smiled broadly and with a quick spin, rushed into his arms. He laughed softly as she almost tumbled him over and hugged her. For those who knew Jim Moriarty, the scene would have been unthinkable. The man obsessed with his designer clothes and wearing an aura that clearly said "don't come close, mad dog", looked more normal than should be, his eyes twinkling with genuine affection.

"Ah, here's my little sis!" he said, laughing. Then, disengaging from the little woman, he made her spin and said with a touch of disappointment: "Look at you, now!" But at her biting of her lip, he winked at her and added "You're lucky that you have a fairy godbrother that looks out for you. I have a dress for you in my room. Go and put it on." He stated warmly and his sister beamed at him before disappearing.

Twenty minutes later, the siblings were sat at a table in the sitting room of the plush suite in which resided Jim. Molly had dropped her frumpy clothes and returned to her original tastes. She was wearing a Diane Von Furstenberg green wrap-dress, and while printed, the design was elegant and suited her skin tone perfectly. She'd made her hair up in a slightly messy bun, donned 10 inches high heels and when one looked at her, one saw a tasteful woman instead of the overgrown awkward teenager she played at. Jim smiled warmly at the turn of his sister and wondered why again she insisted on wearing garish attires as part of her mousy persona, surely it had to be a pain since she had quite the same eye as him for beauty. He looked at her as he poured her some red wine and asked:

"Is that a new lipstick? I haven't seen you wear it before."

His little sister froze slightly but she soon laughed with a light twinkling in her voice and he decided to push back the incident at the back of his mind. She teased him a little about him being such a cliché for gayness but he knew there wasn't any venom in it. Yet, he couldn't help but tease her back:

"Ah, but I don't know, not sure the gay cliché includes being a criminal mastermind." He playfully shot back.

"True, you got me. But wait and see, I'm sure that we'll get one in the next Bond movie." She giggled at him.

They laughed together at the joke, the Bond movies having been one of their shared guilty pleasures. No matter the unrealistic quality to them, they always enjoyed the colourful villains and deadly James Bond girls.

"So, how is your work? Is pathology to your taste, then?" he asked after that.

"It's very interesting and it actually is a better fit for me than traumatic surgery. Also, I get to examine murders and such, so it does work well for my other interests too." She said grinning at that.

"And on that front, how is that little hobby of yours going?" he replied, as if he was talking about knitting rather than killing people. Well, that was certainly something that his people would be much more able to understand.

"Oh, I got that man. A bloody awful one. He worked at Barts and preyed on poor, helpless children. Took money for it too." She replied, her eyes darkening and her voice taking a cold hissing edge as she remembered her victims deeds.

Jim put his hand on her shaking one. He knew that if there was a thing that his sister couldn't abide, it was those preying on weaker than them and profited from it. As a matter of fact, as all serial killers, his sister had a definite type. Which is why he avoided anything related to prostitution or sex-rings as he knew that there was a clear line that he should never cross – or he would find himself on a cold slab in her morgue. He knew what her trigger was and they never ever spoke of it, the slashing pain of it dulled but not forgotten over the years. He smiled and comforted her. Soon enough, she was smiling again.

"Well, anyway, the world is a better place now that he is no longer in it." She smiled as she said it, the confidence and pleasure at her success clear on her face now.

"And you didn't get caught. Nobody even suspected foul play, did they?" he asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to see her smile broaden as her darkness glittered with an onyx quality, infusing her face with light.

"Have they ever?" she shot back, the grin so sweet no one would guess at their discussion. "No actually, I was quite clever and I've also managed to fool the best detective about it, too. Didn't see a thing." She finished, the proud smile expected but the little blush on her face arresting Jim's wandering ideas a little. But before he could pry on the unusual expression, she shrugged.

"So, what about you? Have you found anything challenging recently?" she asked cheerfully.

"Yes, I've something going on that is actually pretty fun. See, I met that brilliant, conscience-free guy totally wasting himself in his job. The man was bored out of his mind so much that he was just waiting for his death – terminal cancer apparently." Started to tell Jim.

Molly felt as if a scalpel had just lodged next to her heart. She was worried. Deeply worried about her big brother that was so brilliant, ruthless and yet, hid a weakness that formed cracks in his soul that would shatter him unexpectedly at the wrong shock, or more alike, absence of shock. She knew the affect that boredom would have on him, how it would push him along to the dark path where death started singing an attractive lullaby that would charm him into abandoning life altogether. That was why she had programmed a well-known disco song as a ring in his phone, the surprise and frank ridiculousness of it a reminder that she was there for him. Yet, she didn't want to let him see her fear and spoil the mood, so she mastered a big smile and feigned careless interest at his words.

"Really, so what did you do? Invited him to play in one of your little games?" she asked.

"Of course. I'm paying him for each people he would be able to kill and get away with. As for now there have been three of them and he managed to keep the NSY totally out of their wits. They're quite ridiculous about it: they're calling the murders serial suicides!" Moriarty giggled at the cleverness of his new pet.

Molly smiled also. This was the sort of games that her brother used to stave his melancholy and she was alright with it. So, that was the explanation for the additional bodies found in her morgue. Of course, despite any clue of violence and the obvious signs that the victims had administered their own deaths, she'd known all along that the deaths were linked. But as she'd just assisted on the PMs, she'd not said anything about it. It might also have been slightly because the senior pathologist she'd assisted had been a total prick to her. Maybe just slightly. She explained all that to her brother, detailing the signs that allowed her to deduce the M.O. of the killer and her brother praised her fondly. When he mocked the police and her colleagues for their cluelessness, she remembered someone who had questioned her about the deaths. A man with dark curls that stood sometimes too close to her and certainly used his deep voice to extract from her confidences that she never intended to make.

"Well, as a matter of fact, there might be someone that is suspecting something is aloof." She said, reflecting on the precise questions of the detective.

"Really?" asked Jim, genuinely surprised. He looked at his sister, lost in her thoughts, and thought back at the blush and the small freeze moment about her lipstick. There was a mystery to be unveiled there. "Who is he?"

"A consulting detective." She shrugged, still not looking at her brother and focused on something in her mind. "A very good one at that. He has a forensic mind that rivals my own, I dare say."

"Well, he's not with the police so I don't think he'll do much, do you?" Jim's eyes narrowed at tone of his sister voice, never before had he heard this mix of appreciation and admiration. And he worried. His little sis, unlike him, had a softer heart than she might acknowledge and he was deathly afraid of what further heartbreak might do to her. The death of their father had already been a serious blow to her and he was deeply troubled at what would happen if she trusted her barely mended organ into a careless man's hands.

"Oh, I'm sure that they'll call him in." she replied with some irritated confidence. It irked her somehow how her brother was dismissive of her detective – dear lord, not 'her', she meant 'the' obviously. "And I'm sure, he'll be able to figure it out." She stated pompously. At the curious glance shot by her brother, she decided to divert the conversation to something else. "So, anything else in your schedule?" she asked, jutting her chin towards the manila envelopes dropped on the coffee table.

Jim considered for a moment ignoring the abrupt change of topic but finally decided against it. He hadn't seen his younger sister in quite some time and now was not the time to rile her up. So, he stood up, got to the stack of files and then handed them over to her so she could have a look. They had already finished their dinner, so they went to the sofa and got comfy as they discussed the files. She offered her opinion on some but mostly listened to him as he explained the schemes he would orchestrate for each one of his selection. Suddenly, she took out one of the envelopes that he had discarded as not interesting enough and asked him:

"What about her?" Molly was perusing the file of a blond platinum woman, ex-CIA agent and freelance on the run after having shot her employer in the head.

"Well, she's just asking for a reinforcement for her new identity. She's in nurse school and she's worried that her established identity will not hold to scrutiny. Which she's right about since she went to that imbecile for it." He pouted as he referenced one of his competitors in the job. Molly didn't need to know his name, they'd agreed that except for emergencies, she'd better not know about the contractors with whom her brother did business.

"Well, why don't you do it? It's easy and it's not bad to have someone with her skill-set beholden to you." Said softly Molly, her eyes focused on the file.

"Pfff. Boring and I already have an assassin on retainer, thank you!" retorted Jim. "But why her? It's why she'd gone into hiding, isn't it?" asked Jim almost rhetorically. Once again, they were back at the crux of Molly's psyche.

"It's just… I like her." She replied with a soft smile, as she ignored the second part of the question of her brother.

Jim rolled his eyes. He didn't want that kind of sentimentality to enter his business. Normally, Molly was such a good sounding board. But it seemed that today, there was some of her softness that was overflowing past their relationship to attach itself to mundane things and people. He didn't like it. His sister was his rock and he didn't want her to be eroded by some mysterious forces that made her so mushy inside. Once again, he had a flicker thought about the detective. Well, he had an idea to nip this in the bud. Oh yes, that was a perfectly elegant solution and it killed two birds with the same stone.

"You know what? If your detective stops my cabbie, I'll do it. I'll save your little damsel in distress." he suggested watching a bright gleam flick on in his sister eyes. They did that sort of bets sometimes, a little additional challenge that felt like their games of dare when they were little.

"Deal. He'll do it, you'll see." She replied confidently. "And what do you want if he fails? Not that I have any doubt about his success." She finally asked.

"Then you'll come and work with me for one month." He replied honestly. He had always wanted her to be his second, but always failed to convince her. He also wanted her to meet with Bastian, his new lover and pet assassin. He desperately needed to have her opinion on him but couldn't ask because she didn't want to find herself entangled with his business. And Bastian was definitely part of his business. Unaware of his musings, Molly nodded and smiled brightly at her brother.

"It's a deal, then. What's the name of your detective? So I know when he fails." He asked casually.

"Sherlock Holmes and he won't fail." She answered back.

Jim froze at the name as the playfulness drained from his face. Holmes. It had to be the brother of that government man that he had avoided for so long. Only one family could use such terrible names for their children. As the pathologist saw the change in the consulting criminal, she became serious and acknowledged his deductions by a slight jerk of her head.

"Yes, I know about his big brother, the shadow man of the British Government." She stated. At her brother's enquiring look she answered: "Stamford, my boss, is quite a gossip. He moaned for weeks on end about being forced by the elder Holmes into allowing Sherlock access of the labs. But don't worry, I have everything under control. They don't suspect anything and since you're the one responsible for my identity, we both know it's bullet proof." She calmly reassured her brother.

Jim sat silent for a few minutes as his mind processed the danger his sister was in. Finally, after reviewing everything in his head he had to agree with her. She was safe and the best solution was for her to stay exactly where she was. Any tempestuous move might be found dubious and investigated. It wouldn't prevent him from doubling the checks he had in place to make sure she was alright, but it was more for the sake of himself than her. He finally relaxed and they finished reviewing the files. Then, she got up and went to the bedroom to change back into her pathologist clothes. When she came back, Jim had just finished a call and looked at the window, a cup of tea in his hand. She came to hug him and say goodbye and he startled her as he asked:

"Never before have you agreed to those kind of stakes. Do you really think he's that good?" he asked pensively.

"Well, I really like her." Replied Molly with another of her bright smile.


	6. If I wanted to talk

Ok, this is becoming very dark as we know a little more about Jim's and Molly's childhood. There is implied child abuse so if this is a trigger, please don't read.

Also, we see Molly's dark side a lot. She's not among friend and so the warmth that she normally displays with Sherlock and Jim is totally absent. I hope you'll find the character consistent.

The title of the chapter is actually taken from the first verse of a song called Creep in a t-shirt from Portugal. The man. This song is actually a great inspiration for writing Jim and Molly as for me it impersonates greatly their psyche.

Again, I don't own anything.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Molly Hooper sat in the interrogation room, her shoulders hunched and extreme worry on her face. She looked at the male agents from the airport security as if she was having the worst nightmare and was hoping to wake up. At the perplexed look on their faces when they exchanged glances, she could see that they believed the front she was putting on. And it was a good front, everything on her posture screamed "please, I don't know what's happening". She knew that left with her for a few more minutes she could manipulate them into thinking they got the wrong person and release her. This didn't mean that it was all safe, however. Normally, nothing like this should have happened. She had changed the cut and dye of her hair, donned blue coloured lenses and went back to stylish clothes – black skinny jeans with a slick grey and white leopard printed shirt and black silver-tipped high heeled boots. Nothing about her was reminiscent of sturdy, sweet and awkward Molly Hooper. No. The image she projected now was one of fragile, sophisticated woman. Normally, nobody should have even been looking for her and she should have embarked on her plane uneventfully. However, it didn't go as planned and she now had to act on her contingency plan. So, she drew on some semblance and vulnerability and played at the frightful, beautiful creature. The modern epitome of the damsel in distress. She looked pleadingly at her captors and smiled inwardly at their uneasy shuffling: she'd be out soon at this rate.

Unfortunately, a rapid knock on the door interrupted the little scene she was orchestrating and the guards turned to get up, obviously relieved to be discharged of the responsibility. As they got out, one of them quickly muttered:

"Inspector Lestrade is here to see you."

Molly froze at the name. It wasn't possible. Greg Lestrade didn't know about her, at least not about the real her. Surely not. As hundreds of theories and possibilities passed through her head to account for the policeman presence, she heard a man enter. A sigh almost left her lips as she saw that it wasn't Lestrade after all. But she reigned in her obvious relief and quickly painted a cryptic and bored expression on her face. The man came to the table and looked down at her. She smiled her sociopathic smile, the one that broadcasted her skills with a scalpel. The tall silhouette didn't react to it. She cocked her head to the side and said:

"Lestrade, Mycroft? Should I offer congratulations?" she sneered at the government man, raising an eyebrow and nodding at the ring on his finger to make perfectly clear her insinuations.

"Tsk. My brother is right. Your jokes, Miss Hooper, are quite appalling." Replied evenly Mycroft, meeting her yes with his own.

"How would you know? I never saw you demonstrate any sense of humour whatsoever." She shrugged dismissively and propped her elbows on the table, intertwining her fingers. Not that she wanted to entertain the elder Holmes.

"Anyway, I'll stand by my case. Now, Miss Hooper, or is it Miss Vesper, nowadays?" asked the man, the snicker almost evident.

"Oh please, call me Linda." She purred dangerously. Would he get the joke? Nobody did it seemed. Jim was so right. She could have gone with a passport with the name Pussy Galore and nobody would have gotten it.

However, it might be that Mycroft Holmes did have a sense of humour if the brief flash in his eyes was to go by. Well, if the MI6 didn't get a James Bond joke, who would?

"As entertaining as all this is, Miss Vesper, I'm more interested in the whereabouts of your brother. And if you'd be so kind, do address me as Inspector Lestrade."

"Hmmm?" she hummed non-committedly. Interesting, Mycroft wasn't there in his official capacity. No, he was hiding this visit from his bosses. Usurping Lestrade's identity the perfect cover to that effect. The Met Inspector had enough authority to open the right doors and wasn't special enough to raise any suspicions.

As she integrated the information that Mycroft let slip and devised a new plan for her escape, the fake Inspector Lestrade glared at her. He tsked once more and she focused again on him.

"Miss Vesper. It would be in your best interest to talk, now." He ordered.

She couldn't resist her next quip and her smile took that Cheshire characteristic that was supposedly a hereditary trait in her family. She leaned toward the tall man in a beautiful Savile Row suit and said:

"I'm sorry, Mr. Policeman. If I wanted to talk I would have called a friend."

"Miss Vesper. You don't grasp the severity of your situation. You're the sister of a wanted criminal. I have all the power to detain you until you give me everything I want." Icily stated the politician.

"Or not." She childishly countered.

"Whatever intellect and wit you pride yourself for, I can assure you that it will be nothing against the depths of pain which I could bring you to."

Molly's smile became colder, the scalpel-like edge of it returning with a vengeance. And the look on her eyes… Suddenly, there was an alikeness with her brother's that made the government man's blood run cold. Was that the viper that had hidden under his brother's wing for all this time?

"You met my brother. What makes you think I am any different?" She taunted.

"Such resistance is not often naturally occurring. Balance of probability…" he dismissively stated.

At that her eyes took an even harder glint and Mycroft thought that the viper would launch herself to him. Yet, instead of attacking him, her eyes left his and she stared far away, a curious melancholic look etching itself on her face:

"Remember when you told me to take care of my right shoulder, during Sherlock's fall?" her voice softened imperceptibly at his brother's name but Mycroft didn't miss it. "The one I told you was still scarred from an old injury?" she asked, her head cocked once again to the side as her fingers drummed softly on the table. Swiftly, her eyes bore into his and she asked, the softness of her tone clashing with the harshness of her gaze:

"Maybe you're familiar with the terms tratto di corda? Our high pain tolerance levels are not built-in. They were built- _up_."

Mycroft had to consciously refrain himself from widening his eyes in stupor at the matter-of-fact statement. Molly Hooper's injury had been old, probably going back to her pre-teens years. As for the Italian words, he couldn't imagine what parents with an inkling of intelligence would purposely subject their children to the medieval form of torture. And yet, the woman in front of him and her disturbed brother were the proof that such people existed. Genitors that had not only abused their children but thought it through too. The depth of perversity required for it was unfathomable… and if that was their children's treatment, what would such an individual cause society at large? He was quickly interrupted in his musings as the pathologist shook herself out of her pensive state and stated:

"Anyway, the point is moot. If you were here in this kind of capacity, we both know you wouldn't go by Lestrade, would you?" At the surprised look on the man's face, she chuckled. "Yours is not the only family in which genius runs, you know."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up. This woman was far from the shy pathologist he'd met one fated Christmas. He looked at her, disregarding any assumptions previously made and deduced anew. The result was disquieting to say the least. Miss Molly Hooper was a brilliant, deranged woman, full of contradictions. A killer but only of other predators. A sociopath of sorts but able to feel deep loyalty and love for some individuals. Her brother was one of them. His was another. He hadn't been wrong in that. Himself on the other hand, she thoroughly disliked. In some aspects, she was deeply intriguing. An oxymoron that both displayed above average intelligence and yet very in touch with her emotions. He hoped that his brother would never get a glimpse of the incredible jigsaw that she was or he would fall utterly and completely for her.

Molly Hooper waited for Mycroft Holmes to make his own mind about her. In that moment, he looked almost like his brother. She stilled her heart to resist feeling any connexion to him. She let him deduce her and relaxed back on her chair crossing her ankle on her knee. She needed to get a grip. She focused on the glee she'd had at rubbing his mistakes on his face. Payback was a bitch, they say and its middle name was Molly. Yet, she couldn't help but wonder briefly at what he saw and then discarded the thought. Better avoiding caring about his opinion. Instead, she got back to hammering down her point.

"Don't worry Mycroft, I won't be up to any trouble for you. I'm leaving the country and have no intention of returning. Neither has Jim. Well, unless you give him a reason. And I have to warn you, this would be very bad for you. There is nothing that Jim's wouldn't stop at to retrieve me. And last time, he almost killed Sherlock. Surely, you don't want an encore performance."

"Miss Vesper, do you really think that threats will work on me?" patronizingly asked Mycroft.

"Not really. I'm just presenting you with arguments that you can hide behind whenever asked the reasons for your releasing me." She shrugged dismissively.

"Oh, really. And pray, do tell what would be the real reasons?" the government man almost spat the words.

"Interesting what makes one tick, don't you think? For John, it's brotherhood, for Sherlock, it's loyalty and for you, it's honour or if you feel ill-at-ease with the old-fashioned value, sense of obligation. And here you're facing your biggest problem. You owe me." She said confidently.

"Do I owe you, Miss Vesper? I don't think so."

"Oh you do. I saved what is most precious to you twice. I saved Sherlock by faking his death not only to the world but to my brother. And I saved him again when he shot Magnussen. You really don't think that this little video appeared at such a convenient time just by pure magic?" she taunted. "So, where you failed twice, I succeeded. Worst of all, if you took me or my brother in, nothing would keep your bosses to send Sherlock back in Eastern Europe in the light of the new scandal that my revealed identity would raise."

Mycroft paled with defeat as she enunciated her arguments. She would have felt sorry for him if he hadn't been the one to orchestrate her brother's torture. Right then, she knew that was the best payback she'd ever get on the man. He wasn't one to like being bested, most of all by someone he'd always thought so inferior. As if she was one of those flocking birds wandering aimlessly in the sky.

Later, she would remember his disgruntled look as she joined her brother in the embankment room, careful not to betray their connection and she'd smile the whole flight. It wasn't every day that one wrestled the British Government into yielding to one's demands.


	7. The black swann

_I own nothing_

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHS

Odile arrived in the kitchen to see the detective propped back against the counter, giving him a full view of the kitchen with no blind spot. The young woman, couldn't help but pause momentarily when she saw him. However, she made herself go to the counter as to flip on the kettle. Next to the kettle, the tea set was laid on a tray. She smiled and then slowly turned to the man, determination etched on her delicate features:

"Still not doing tea yourself, I see." she said as she met his eyes. The light metallic green of them were shuttered and focused.

"No. Mrs. Hudson wants to have words with my mother about it." His voice was cold, no little smile, no "p" popped at the end of his no, no mirth despite the wit.

Oh, this was not a friendly visit then. Odile took a step back positioning herself so the kettle was between them. Not that she wanted to hurt him, but she was a survivor, she knew herself well enough that between her captured and him injured she'd chose the latter. She looked back at the man in front of her. He was the same as in her memories. Dark unruly curls, beautiful porcelain skin, tilted feline eyes, the colour of which as saturnine as his temper ranging from eerie green to steel grey passing through opaline blue. The features remained the same, not exactly classically beautiful but striking. Still the coat. She shivered a little at her inspection, he still had the same effect on her after all this years. Yet, his lush mouth curled just a little more bitter and his face was once again shut. As their eyes met again, she saw his dispassionate gaze sweep across her body and she wondered idly if he was also taking note of the difference between her past self and her present self. She knew that he was deducing her. She let him try, knowing that he wouldn't be able to make sense of it. Like his arch enemy, the reason why she was so good at deception was because she didn't really lie, just concealed cleverly what she didn't want known. But nobody, even the great Holmes could conceive that. As she let him survey her once more, she absentmindedly took a look at her mobile. No incoming text.

"Waiting for a call, maybe?" enquired Sherlock, pulling her out of her musings. His eyes were firmly planted on hers with an undecipherable quality, as if he was pondering on whether to pin board her in his mind like an exotic specimen or just go and squash her like an undesirable bug.

"Just wondering whether I should call a carpenter right away or if the MI6 might actually _not_ kick down the main door." She replied evenly, raising her brow at the detective.

Blue eyes met blue eyes for a moment. Each evaluating the other's reaction to the statement.

"Not really their jurisdiction. Anyway, interesting name you've chosen for yourself, Odile." he replied, emphasizing the name with a French accent when he got to it. "As is the name of the owner of this house, Mr. Bartholomew Ross. Do you always lay it this thick?" he asked disdainfully.

"Nobody caught on. But please, do show off. Brainy is the new sexy, isn't it?"

"Well, knowing the last location your phone emitted was easy since Mycroft practically owns the NSA nowadays -by the way, he clearly instructed me not to greet you. After that, it was only a matter of time once in Austria to reactivate some of my left over network from my two years spent abroad. Search for a woman with dark hair and blue eyes... But you did make it easy for me to find you. Odile. Sign - English for signe, a French word that sounds exactly as swan in the same language. And of course, Bart Ross. Or should I say Rothbart?" explained curtly Sherlock Holmes.

"You summoned me?" sing-songed a lilting voice behind the two.

Sherlock Holmes turned slowly to see two men enter the room. One was his blogger, who really should actually be in London with his pregnant wife and the other was the man currently using the name of Bart Ross but that he had also known under the aliases of Jim from IT, James Moriarty and Richard Brook. He steeled himself against giving any tells as he furiously tried to decipher the unexpected situation. Sadly, whenever his blogger, Moriarty and the present woman were involved, there were always surprises. He both enjoyed and hated that he had to admit. The army doctor was currently hold at gunpoint by the nemesis, a situation not unlike their first meeting with the dangerous psychopath.

"John? I don't remember inviting you to come with me." he said succinctly.

"Yes. And abandoning your pregnant wife for a romantic escapade with Sherlock Holmes. My dear John, people will talk!" mocked the criminal mastermind from behind the man.

"Sherlock. Mycroft sent me. Said you found yourself in a situation with a viper. Since we know exactly how it ended the last time, I couldn't let you deal with Irene Adler…" started the blogger as he took a step to face the Woman and let her know what he thought of her.

As his eyes met cold blue ones, John Watson felt as if the world had shifted on its axis. Where he expected to find the former dominatrix, a well-known tricky and cut-throat bitch, he found himself facing a woman who he had called a friend for years. Despite the change in the hair colour and the blue tinted lenses, the face was definitely Molly Hooper's. Her cold façade seemed to crumble just for a second but snapped back into a calm and emotionless mask so fast that the doctor was almost convinced he'd imagined it. Yet, the shock of seeing a friend that he had started grieving was such that he couldn't help but ask:

"Molly? Is that you?" his voice was low and broken as if it had been smashed like glass by the rippling effect of his discovery.

Molly didn't answer. But as Moriarty chuckled darkly behind them, she turned and shot him a quenching look. This was a look that was undeniably Molly. Normally, however, she used it to reprimand the consulting detective when he was a little not good. The situation was so surreal that John couldn't wrap his mind around it.

"My god. So that is the Victor Trevor situation Mycroft was referencing..." he mumbled to himself.

At the name, all three other people in the room tensed. Moriarty was the first to recover and immediately questioned:

"Who did you say? The name, now..."

"Victor Trevor" said defiantly John, bristling at the gun that was now pressing to his back.

"More…" threatened Moriarty, his sudden focus almost as creepy as his previous madness. This was the Business Man Moriarty, Sherlock deduced.

"He was my roommate." the detective explained, so that Moriarty's attention shifted back to him. "At University. He befriended me and introduced me to drugs, hoping I guess to distract me from discovering that he was planning on murdering the dean and maybe framing me in the process." he said the words without any sentimentality, as if that kind of betrayal occurred every day.

The two siblings shared a look, silently communicating with their eyes. Molly's eyes glanced at the gun pressed into John's back and went back to drilling Jim's own. The criminal mastermind rolled his eyes as if she was being unreasonable but relented. He lowered the gun and took a step back, giving room to John who spun and came to side with Sherlock. Molly, who had taken a step back, finally acknowledged him and ordered in a dark voice:

"John, call Mary. Tell her to take the next plane for Vienna."

"What? I don't understand?" asked bewildered the blogger at the complete change of demeanour of the two people in front of him. Jim had laid his gun on the counter, swearing furiously under his breath. Molly was stiff and had a shuttered look that reminded him of Sherlock's when in his mind palace. As a matter of fact, the only one who acted familiarly was the detective. Poised, he was observing the other two, the stillness belying the race undertaken by his mind. He was finally startled by Molly who demanded:

"Call Mary! Now!" she had barely raised her voice but John had never heard the woman so intent before. It felt like a punch in the guts. But he refrained himself from doing what he was ordered. He wouldn't endanger his wife and future-child.

"Not until I know what's going on." he hissed between clenched teeth. He shot a look at the detective to see if he knew what they were dealing with but the look on Sherlock's face was undecipherable.

"Your roommate couldn't be Victor Trevor" she said, addressing the detective.

"Oh but he was." replied Sherlock, his voice taking a metallic quality.

"No, he couldn't." she said, her voice slightly shaking. "Because I am Victor" she said pointing at herself "And he is Trevor" she finished as she pointed to Jim who waved at them, the gesture taking a sinister undertone due to the absence of a smile.

The detective reeled back at the statement. His mind started working overtime to take in the information. His eyes shut and John suddenly felt very alone in this room. It seemed that everyone understood the undercurrents of the conversation except for him. It reminded him of the visit to Charles Magnussen and he wasn't pleased at relieving the experience.

"Still makes no sense to me." he said again, looking once more at Molly for an explanation.

However, the woman seemed lost in the observation of Sherlock. John almost felt as if he'd need to ask again when Jim turned to him.

"Johnny, Johnny. Unfortunately, it seems that Sherlock stumbled into our family dirty laundry long before we ever met. If there was a man named Victor Trevor, it can only be because he had been planted here. Which means that your dear Sherlock has been under surveillance for a long time. And with the recent developments, all who are close to him and Molly are in danger." he explained carefully and calmly for once.

John squinted. The man in front of him didn't look like the criminal mastermind he'd crossed path with. The usual madness and emotionlessness were gone, replaced by a look of worry as he looked at the young pathologist. John wondered for a moment what exactly linked those two. After all, he'd always been convinced that the woman was in love with Sherlock. But he wasn't sure of anything now.

"Please John, call Mary." implored Molly as she turned back to John. If he wasn't a seasoned warrior, he would have had emotional whiplash from the transformation of Molly. Right at this instant, she was precisely the same as the woman he had known. "Please, make her come. She's not safe in London." she kept on.

John looked once more in her eyes and then shot a glance at Sherlock. The detective seemed back from wandering his mind palace and nodded gravely at him.

"Fine." he relented. "But you have to tell me more." he warned.

"Jim and I, we have an enemy. Someone from our past. She's cunning, ruthless and she won't stop at anything to get us back. And now, we know she's observed Sherlock for a long time, so she knows about you, about Mary. She'll use you. Which is why you need to be with us so we can keep you safe." she explained with difficulty.

"Is that the Woman? Because from what I remember she's not that dangerous. At least physically." he asked trying to understand who could be such a danger. And he almost dismissed Molly's fears, after all, she didn't know that his wife was a former assassin. But as soon as the words left his mouth, Jim rolled dramatically his eyes.

"Lord, what do they all have with the Woman? Certainly it cannot be just sexual attraction… No, dummy, it's not the Woman. It's much much worse. See, as the Holmes brother have not fallen from the sky - don't let their parents' good nature fool you, Johnny boy - me, the consulting detective and Molly…" he quickly glanced at his sister and seemed to have another silent conversation. "...the pathologist, also have genitors. And now that Daddy dearest is not here anymore, it seems that Mommy has come back to claim her babies. And this will not be a happy family reunion, let me tell you." As he said the last sentence, the madness seemed to overcome Moriarty once again as cold rage and sarcasm tainted his voice.

John looked alternately at Jim and Molly. He just stood frozen there unable to digest the revelations. Finally, Sherlock turned to him and took him by the elbow and prompted him to go to the main room.

"Come on John, we need to call Mary and arrange for her arrival."

SHSHSHSHSHS

 _I hope that the identity of Odile wasn't too obvious from the start (it seemed to me but well I wrote it). Sorry for those who wanted to see the Woman. She'll be making an appearance yet in further chapters. R &R if you like the chapter._


	8. Flashback: Blogs and bets

_Hello all, so I'm back with a flashback chapter. I hope you like it. I want to thank again all of you you favorited, shared, reviewed and followed the story._

 _As usual , I own nothing._

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Molly looked at the paperwork in front of her and she sighed. She hated this, doing paperwork. The analysis, the autopsies, the hunt for clues and unravelling the puzzle, these were the parts of her job that she positively adored. What she hated, was the administrative stuff. She knew she had to do it but it was so boring. Nonetheless, she was required to write out her findings. Fortunately, she had with her the tape of the PM to help her. Not that she would have needed it in other circumstances but in this case, it had been quite a boring, natural death. But it seemed that some paranoid, overprotected and pretentious daddy's little girl couldn't admit that yes, when one seventy-five years old man marries a desperate twenty something woman and indulges in too much Viagra when trying to prove to his wife that he had the endurance of a porn star, physical hearts tended to go boom. Not in the good way either. So after a hysterical, pushy daughter had requested an in-depth autopsy, trying to prove that her step-mother had done her father in, Molly had been the one to perform the autopsy. She smiled as she remembered the words of Stamford "she wants the best, I'll give her the best and hope that will be sufficient." Yes, she was the best. Little Miss Perfect she was called by her colleagues. She was somehow still bewildered that she managed to form some sort of kinship with Meena and Caroline. They were sweet, morbid pathologists as she herself was – some days, it didn't even feel like she was pretending anymore – and they enjoyed sessions of karaoke one Friday a month.

Anyway, she had to stop her mind musings and go back to the joyless task in front of her. The damn paperwork for the oversexed old man. Not a very interesting case but a priority nonetheless. After she'd done all the analysis and dissecting, she hadn't found out anything pointing at foul play and one look at the young thing that the old man had called wife, she'd known for a fact that the step-mother was innocent. But the daughter wouldn't have it and had thrown a tantrum and insisted to have the body transferred to another hospital for another autopsy. Which was why she had to record every little perfunctory little thing from her PM so as to forward the report to the next pathologist.

"Hmm, Hi. Is Mike Stamford here?" asked a voice from behind her.

She turned to see the veteran doctor that was friend with Mike. He seemed better, like the PTSD wasn't an issue anymore. He no longer had a cane either. She smiled welcomingly and said:

"Just in his office with a distraught family member."

"Oh, is everything alright? Didn't know he had some problems with his family." Replied the blond man with concern in his voice.

"Oh no, not at all. Sorry, I meant that he was dealing with a dead man's family member. Lord, it sounds atrocious doesn't it? A dead man's family member?" she giggled helplessly at her awkwardness.

"Not at all. I understand" the corner of his mouth lifted a little and her heart skipped a bit at the charming pictured he formed. "So, you're Molly, right?" he asked, a flicker of interest in his eyes now.

"Hmm. Yes, Molly Hooper. And you're?" she asked, a little taken aback that he'd find her attractive. She knew that in this persona, her fashion sense was absolutely dreadful and doctors weren't ones to normally fall for the white coat fetish.

"John Watson. I'm one of Mike's old friends. I was here when you came in and brought Sherlock Holmes coffee. That's why I know your name." he said with a boyish look that certainly ensured many conquests when he was in the army.

"Yes, of course. Sherlock Holmes. Not too put off by the deducing?" she asked trying to veer the discussion away from flirtation. Not that it wasn't nice. But she didn't do intimacy as Molly Hooper. And Vicky was more of a bad boys, rough sex and one-night stands type. Anyway, talking about the detective would usually be enough to damp any romantic ideas.

"Well, it was strange but also quite amazing to be honest." He smiled abashedly. "And he's my roommate now. Actually, that's why I'm here. I wanted to thank Mike for introducing us."

Molly couldn't help but be surprised. Most people disliked Sherlock Holmes. Even Mike, who was one of the gentlest soul she'd known, had tried and succeeded in discharging himself from the responsibility of looking over the detective. But as he took a closer look, something clicked in her mind. Ah yes, the PTSD. So that's why he was getting better. The lure of danger, the thrill of adrenaline in one's veins. Sherlock provided all that and more. She, herself, felt it and it assuaged some deep need for excitement. Excitement that was normally provided by her brother but since their dinner a week ago, she hadn't had any contact with him. She shook her head off the idea.

"So, how is it to be Sherlock's Holmes roommate?" she asked and she inwardly flinched at how breathless she sounded. She'd definitely look like a lovesick schoolgirl now.

"Hmmm… Kind of exciting actually. I'll never be bored that for sure. And it gives me something to write in my blog." He said the last with a rueful smile but the glint of seduction was gone from his face. Yes, men had clear boundaries about who to date and the girl crushing on your roommate was clearly off-limits.

"You have a blog? That's so nice! And so, what are you writing about?" she asked, curiosity plain in her voice.

"Well, I'm currently working on the serial suicides thing." He said, a sunny smile on his face as he was recalling the joy he'd had in writing the story.

"Wow. That's great! I'm so curious, we didn't get the end of it. Just that the guy died and that's all. I never quite understood how the police got to him." She said, her curiosity more profound now. She had a little bet going on with her brother about it and she was now itching to know more of how everything wrapped up.

"Well, yes, he was shot. But it was Sherlock who discovered the identity of the killer." He said, shuffling his feet a little.

Molly frowned at that. There was something fishy about the death of the cabbie. But she let it go, now was not the time to investigate. She then pressed John for more of the story and had him recounting the tale. At the end of their discussion, they were both laughing and comfortable around one another. They shared ideas about how to name the case and giggled at the most outlandish ones. And then, they heard some shuffling around as a door was slammed and some muffled screams were heard. At Molly's wince, John glanced at his watched before saying:

"Well, that was a long discussion with a family member." He quipped.

"You have no idea." She muttered, as she shot a look at the paperwork waiting for her.

"Well, I'll go see Mike, then. I'd might even take him out for a drink." He said playfully.

She smiled and he started for the door. Once there, he turned and said:

"Anyway. That was a nice chat, Molly Hooper. I'm glad to have met you." He finished with a bright smile Molly couldn't help but return.

"I am too." She replied and John left.

She glanced at the watch on the wall and was surprised to see that indeed, quite some time had passed during their talk. And it had been nice. Much like it was nice to be with Meena and Caroline. And it had been fun. Talking about cases and mystery, letting John replay Sherlock's deductions. But it had also made her aware of an ache in her heart. She missed her brother. The fact was, the more time passed, the more immerged he became in his illegal activities and the harder it was for them to meet safe from anyone's scrutiny. But he needed his games as she needed her normalcy, so they just had to make things do. And then, she remembered what John had told her. Sherlock had deduced and effectively stopped the cabbie before the police. Oh, her brother was trying to cheat. She took out her phone, opened its case and changed the chip inside it. She then sent the message:

 **As for our bet, I won. Time to settle your debt, brother dear. And when do I see you? Mx**

There were no answers for some time and Molly had to refrain from sighing her exasperation, she replaced her usual chip back in place, knowing that she'll need to wait for her evening check to have news. As she replaced the other chip in the little lenses holder that she carried around, she turned back and started on her paperwork.

On the other side of the town, a man arrived at the desk of a clinic and waited for the medical assistant on duty to come and greet him. The woman, a cheerful platinum blonde, smiled at him and asked him what ailed him. He shook his head in denial and handed to her a paper craft envelope.

"On behalf of Vicky."

The woman looked at him, quizzically before she opened the manila. At the sight of its content, she blanched slightly and then a relieved smile left her mouth. As she lifted her eyes to the stranger, she saw that he had left. Hugging the envelope to her chest, she looked over the room trying to see where the man might have gone. No sign of the stranger. She then muttered to herself "Who is Vicky?"


	9. We used to be friends

_OK, so this is one of the first chapter I actually wrote for this story - it was very clear in my mind from the very start. It deals with Molly's friends confronting her with her real identity. John's reaction is quite bad as one can imagine, while Sherlock's is more mixed. I hope you'll find the characters not to be too OOC (I really tried to stick to their personalities, even if in Molly's case it's a little more tweaked)._

 _I don't own anything._

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"Moriarty's is your brother." Stated slowly John.

Molly sighed as she dropped the spoon that had stopped half-way to her mouth. She shot a regretful look at her cake before pushing it aside and lifting her eyes to her friend.

"Yes, he is." She replied softly, waiting for the rest of the diatribe to come.

"Your brother is a mad psychopath that almost blew me to pieces in a swimming pool and recruited hit-men to kill me." Expanded John Watson, his eyes grilling the soft pathologist. Except, that the quiet and cool woman in front of him didn't quite look like the pathologist he knew and liked. And it wasn't just the change of clothes or hair. There was no stuttering nor nervous, skittering eyes. No, this woman met his angry stare head-on and her face, while still expressive, was resolute and confident.

"John, I'd never let him blow you up. Why do you think he was distracted just at the right time? As for the hit-men, you know that Mycroft had dispatched them before they could try a warning shot." She answered, some sibling irritation displayed but still somewhat defending her brother.

"Molly, sorry to disturb the little fantasies in your head where your brother is just a wounded soul but he is a bloody killer that doesn't hesitate to target women and children. So, please don't try to downplay what he is. Adler had to fake her death to escape him. He blew up a nice old woman during his nasty games with Sherlock, for god's sake!" He shouted angrily.

At his words, a steel glint came in the eyes of Molly and it was like she was an altogether different person. There was a coldness and anger that he had glimpsed only once and had him gulping for breath. As she got up from her stool, he almost took a step back. Was she going to slap him like Sherlock? Or worse?

"John, my brother is a psycho that organizes crimes just for his amusement. I don't deny that. But all those people, Adler as well as others, they reached to him. They deserved whatever they got." She replied, crossing her arms around her chest, the steely glint never leaving her eyes. As she saw, John's open his mouth to argue further, she kept on. "As for the nice, old, _innocent_ , gran." Sarcasm was now dripping from the words. "Did you know that during WWII, she was a medical assistant in Auschwitz – Birkenau? A volunteer assistant? To what she would have without doubt termed as medical experiment but was torture without scientific purpose?" At that, John visibly gulped. His eyes, skittered away from Molly's face.

"No one is innocent John. Not my brother, not Sherlock, not you, nor me. We all have darkness inside us which is why we're together in this place today." She finally admitted a little defeated, her eyes once again trained longingly on the piece of cake, as if its sweetness could somehow take the bitterness of her world.

She heard John leaving the kitchen and sighed deeply. It had been so simple when she just was the sweet, pathetic pathologist with a crush on the most unattainable man in England. Not that she'd ever been just that, her darkness had always been there if more subdued. But, never before did her friends have to see the entirety of her psyche. And even knowing that it was to be expected, their rejection hurt. She looked a little more at her cake forlornly, pointed her finger and took a little bit of cream frosting on it. As she lifted it to her mouth, she closed her eyes, trying to focus on the taste. As always when she was upset, she took comfort in food. She'd probably put on a stone when all of this was over.

"He's upset. He'll come around. You should have seen him with Mary." Said a cold, detached voice behind her.

Molly froze but didn't dare turn. Sherlock. Of course. In this long journey of misery, there had to be some point where she'll have to deal with that also. She sadly laughed.

"Yes, I know. Mary told me. But I'm not the love of his life and when he'll know all of my darkness, I'm not sure he'll not regret having ever called me his friend."

"And yet, without you and your darkness, he'd never have met Mary, wouldn't he?"

Molly turned then. She observed Sherlock, her eyes taking everything in. He was there, standing in his coat, even if they were inside. Playing the dark figure. Did he try to mimic a roman noir moment? How novel. And more subtle, she had to admit. Before he had never bothered with more than a few half-cooked, never-hearted compliments to get something out of her. As their eyes met, his cold calculating eyes clashing with her more emotional but nonetheless very intelligent ones, she couldn't help but try to impress:

"I see you changed your approach to get something out of me. So, you want to know all of my secrets now?" she said with a calm she wasn't sure she really felt.

"Ah, this had a long way coming." Said Sherlock, finally acknowledging that he had, all those years, underestimated her ability to see through his manipulations. "I suppose it must have been hard to cancel your intelligence behind that meek and mousy exterior. I have to admit to have been tricked. I'm not that easily tricked. So, yes, I'm curious."

Sherlock tried to deduce once more Molly. He'd tried since she'd had approached him in his bedroom back at Baker Street. The worst of it was that he didn't know what to make of his deductions. Mary had been a liar, so it had been simple to dismiss everything and start from scratch. Whatever Molly was, his mind just couldn't believe that everything about her was fake. It bothered him. He needed more data. So, resting comfortably against the wall, he waited for his pathologist to give him some clues about her true self.

"Yes, I have been the one to steer Mary toward John. Or more aptly, I made sure that John would be recruited in the clinic where Mary worked. I asked her to keep an eye on him – she'd come to Jim to provide her with an ironclad identity, you know, so she wasn't that hard to convince. As for her relationship with John, I asked her only for friendly overtures. Nothing more. I'm much more subtle than that." _Not like you,_ was the hinted subtext, Sherlock caught from her vivid and smirking eyes. "And I knew they just were each other types. Not so difficult really." She shrugged at the last, dismissing her talent in deciphering what made others tick and Sherlock could feel his eyes narrow a bit in both calculation and a weird, unwanted arousal.

"So, she knew all along who you are?" asked Sherlock. Decidedly, Mary was a very good liar.

"We really didn't discuss much about it. She knew I knew about Jim's providing her with a new identity and she'd smart, she probably guessed at the rest. And then there was Magnussen – it complicated things. But as for what I man, no, I don't think so." She replied evenly. Her eyes were locked on him now and he knew without a doubt that she was searching for a reaction, a sign of what he thought. He carefully schooled his features. He couldn't have her see the effect her now properly displayed intelligence and cunning had on him. Or it would be the Woman all over again. No, it would be worse. Because the Woman had only one set of skills. She might have known what he liked, but never once did she come close to who he was. Molly, on the other hand, she _knew_ him. He needed to wrench the discussion away from that.

"You two were very good at make believe I have to admit. None of us suspected that you might know each other. Not a single clue. That is a rather impressive skill, Ms. Hooper." He diverted with a cynical tone.

She raised her brow at the blatant compliment. Back to this, Sherlock? My, my, she must have made an impression of some sort if he reverted to the old ways. She almost let a giggle escape her lips but finally settled for a little mocking smirk, waiting for Sherlock's new line of questioning. He didn't come to praise her, no. He needed some answers and she hadn't given him any satisfactory yet. But did he have the guts to broach such an emotional subject, she wondered.

"But at the risk of sounding like John. I'm not very interested in how you did it. I'm much more interested in why you did it." He calmly said, letting his beautiful eyes take a laser-like gleam, pinning her with scalpel precision. She couldn't suppress a light shudder. That was her Sherlock. The one she imagined alone at night, when pleasuring herself.

"Because I like John. He is my friend." She replied truthfully, knowing that no lie would be as disconcerting as the pure truth.

Sherlock stared at her intently, trying to capture all of her reactions, hunting for the smallest trace of deceit. There were none. He almost sighed. This was what was bothering him. Molly didn't lie. She'd always been honest. Not about everything, but she'd never been a liar. Except of course when she'd lied about his death to John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Suddenly, the answer to his dilemma finally struck. Molly. She'd never changed. For two years, she'd lied to people she cared, letting them grieve and after it was revealed, nobody had questioned it. Nobody questioned she'd been just the same sweet and generous Molly. Just because she _was_.

"You're on to something aren't you?" interrupted Molly, her voice taking just the smallest tint of doubt and worry.

He lifted his eyes to hers from the point behind her shoulder where they'd wandered to as his analysis required him into his mind palace.

"Better. I've had an epiphany." He smiled slowly.

"Wha-a-at?" the sudden uncertainty made his smile go wider and Molly went red in embarrassment and anger at herself. Not really immune, aren't you little mongoose, murmured a dark part of Sherlock's mind.

"It's simple really. You are who you are, who you always were." Sherlock shrugged dismissively as if this nugget of information hadn't tormented him for days.

"Sherlock, you don't know who I am. You don't know what I've done." She replied, her defence-mechanism kicking in. "Most of all, I made sure that you never suspected what I did. I've planned murders and committed them. I've killed those I deemed unworthy. This is not the Molly Hooper you know." She continued and he couldn't help but wonder why she wanted him to think so badly of her.

Sherlock detached himself from the wall and stalked to her. The fact was, her little admission didn't surprise him much. His most recent deductions did tell him that she was a killer. But, the fact was, it didn't really matter. Despite her killings, she was still herself, he'd concluded. The whole time he marched to her, he stared into her huge dilated eyes. A few breaths away from her, he stopped and leaned in to her. Just like he'd done at the trains maniac's. And just like then, Molly's worried eyes finally closed and she took a big breath, trying to calm herself. Sherlock stretched his hand on the counter, grasping the plate with the cake. Then, retreating and keeping his eyes on her reopened ones, he took the spoon, cut a little piece of her cake and then manoeuvred it in his mouth. Molly's eyes kept moving from the spoon that she'd used to his lips, her breathing a little more erratic and he couldn't help but feel delighted and a little light-headed at it. Because of the last, his mind considered the reasonableness of what he wanted to do next. But he shot caution to the wind and simply indulged. Instead of simply taking the spoon out of his mouth, he turned it in, making sure to lick around it entirely. He tried not to think too much of the fact that the smooth metal still retained some of the warmth of Molly's mouth. Not because it would disgust him but because he just instinctually felt that it would trigger him to look out for her taste. And whatever game he intended to play, he couldn't let himself react to it. Steeling himself against his own reactions, he focused on Molly's slight gulp and her hurried pulse when he released the spoon with a pop. Then, quietly, he laid down the spoon back to the plate on the counter and used the moment to whisper in her ear:

"You, Molly Hooper, are yourself. The only difference is that it isn't enough bright anymore for you to hide your shadows."

She froze at his words and her eyes once again closed. He could almost feel the tension radiating from her. He hovered, suddenly not knowing what to do.

"Sorry to interrupt Sherlock's nice attempt at seduction, but we have. Important. Matters at hand." Sing-songed a voice behind him.

Immediately, the strange energy he could feel from Molly dissipated as her eyes snapped opened and he almost reluctantly turned to see Moriarty glaring at both of them from the doorway. He stole a quick look at Molly and her face morphed back into the collected and cool façade that she displayed most of the times now. Somehow, he didn't like it. She caught his eyes and after a quick glance, she left the room. He followed suit but as he came up next to Moriarty, the psychopath suddenly grabbed his elbow, jerking him back.

"Sherlock. If you thought I was mad when you meddled with my work, just imagine what I'd do if you play with my heart!" shrieked quietly Jim, his eyes taking a crazy glint and his voice losing its melodious quality.

If Sherlock had been a lone child, he might have mistaken Moriarty's outburst for inappropriate and misplaced jealousy. But Sherlock had seen Mycroft undertake his little interviews with his friends over the years and he knew brotherly overprotectiveness when he saw it – even when it was expressed with the crazy threatening force of a psychopath.

SHSHSHSHSHSH

 _OK, so there a little sexual tension building between Sherlock and Molly. The next chapter (maybe two depending on the length) will be flashbacks that will wrap up what happened in the first season. It might not come very fast as I have a lot of work ahead of me so as to still comply with the canon._


	10. Flashback: Meet Molly Hooper

_Hello all, sorry for the long wait. As I've said, the flashbacks are harder to write because of all the canon to respect and as I was in the middle of it I noticed that some of my timeline wasn't right so I had to start from the beginning. And to top it all, my workschedule is absolutely crazy, so instead of being able to finish my two chapters falshback (yes, it takes more time), I've just decided to give you the first part. It would have been better placed after the Mycroft/Molly scene since it deals with Molly's interview with Mycroft. But well, I guess that's one of the inconvenients with writing as it goes instead of having everything written down before publishing. Hope you'll like it anyway._

 _While I'd very much would like so, I don't own anything._

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Molly Hooper was rarely one to be surprised by turns of events. She'd even say that she was very apt at making sure that everything went according to plan. Her plan. But all that was before she met Sherlock Holmes. She'd first thought that she'd be able to keep herself quite separate from the whirlwind that seemed to accompany him wherever he went. That she'd easily manage to stay untouched by his brand of madness. Unfortunately, she'd been wrong. Dealing with the consulting detective on a daily basis was much harder than she'd imagined. The git was arrogant, rude and too handsome for the sake of her mind. Unlike she'd thought when he'd ignored the proposition behind her offer for coffee, the man was actually pretty aware of his effect on her. He now shamelessly resorted to flirting with her so as to get access to the lab. And she was stuck with obliging him, not only because she was supposed to keep playing the lovesick girl but also because Stamford had made of the detective her responsibility. So now, she was an object of ridicule, her colleagues playfully teasing Little Miss Perfect about her crush on Mr. Big bad detective.

The problem with all that, was that it had started to attract attention. The wrong kind of attraction. Mere days after the study in pink case, she'd been getting out of the tube as she noticed a black sedan parked not far from her flat. She tensed. Thanks to John, she already knew what the car entailed, but she couldn't help but feel ill-at-ease about having the elder Holmes brother in her home. Normally, he shouldn't even suspect there might be something fishy about her. But he had access to all sort of technological gadgets and could have spotted something, anything. As paranoia started to overwhelm her, she had to almost physically reign in her need to flee. She couldn't afford to panic, she needed to act as unsuspecting mousy Molly and not her usual self. This was what she trained for since she was fifteen, hiding her scheming, calculating dark self into the skin of an alike-everyone-else flocking bird. This was her skill, the one her father had helped her hone and she was good at it. Time to put it to the test.

She entered her flat and gasped slightly as she saw the tall and dark figure sitting in one of her chairs, visibly waiting for her. All of it was for show but she hoped that her acting skills would play out in the right way. She let the adrenaline coursing her body make her tremble a little and clenched her hands.

"W-w-who are you?" she whispered looking afraid.

The man in the chair smirked and she felt an almost instant dislike of him. So that was Sherlock's brother. She let her eyes go round as if she was stunned but her mind was working overtime in deducing him. He was much more contained than Sherlock. He didn't give off manic energy nor any need to impress. If she had to bet on it, she was almost sure that he was the one to have made Sherlock unsecure about his intellectual prowess. Therefore, he must be at least as good if not better than her detective – she berated herself in her mind about the possessive pronoun but soon moved on to other deductions. The two Holmes relationship was strained at best – that she already knew from John – but for him to be here and check her out, when everything in his persona told of his despise of normal human beings made her think that he was much more attached to Sherlock than he let on. After all, she also had an overprotective brother and knew what that trait looked like. In her case, she knew it meant being under constant surveillance for her own safety. She didn't even bother looking for her brother's spy cameras anymore. And if Mycroft was half as thorough as her brother – and she was quite sure he was - it was the same for Sherlock. Except that Mycroft – unlike her own brother in regards to her – didn't trust Sherlock's choices in companionship and probably ran thorough identity check on everyone coming close to his brother. Now she understood why except for his quick text "Debt due, debt paid", Jim hadn't been in contact. She had to be under surveillance by Mycroft Holmes the whole time.

"I'm Mycroft Holmes, Miss Hooper or is it back to Dr Hooper nowadays?" said Mycroft with a light smirk on his face.

Molly went to the couch as if she was in a daze and sat heavily, keeping her hands tightly clenched – this way, she would be able to hide the scalpel, which she'd clasped into her hands as soon as she entered the flat – better prepared in case it all went south.

"Hmm… I guess I'm still a surgeon even if I changed fields… hmmm… I guess. But how do you know this and what are you doing in my flat?" she asked as if she couldn't wrap her head around it.

"Miss Hooper, I'm sure this is the shock speaking – at least, I hope so since our doctors are meant to be the cream of our minds. But of course, John Watson told you about our encounter. I'm sure that you've expected to meet me at some point considering the time you spend with my brother."

She let her eyes close at that. She also let him deduce the fact that what she expected was to be summoned in Mike's office for a little tête-à-tête, not being confronted in her own home.

"While I'm positively sorry to invade your privacy, you'll of course understand that it's needed as to evaluate how Sherlock's associates deal under stress."

She shrugged at that, playing the little mouse scared of the big house cat. She wasn't a mouse, not really but she looked somewhat like it and played at it really well. She could see his mind's little inner clogs turn and she knew that he'd already made his mind about her. He didn't look like the kind of man to change his mind either. She'd almost won the game between them, then.

"Would you mind if I asked for a cup of tea? The weather is quite dreadful at this time of year." He unctuously put, but she knew well hidden despise when she saw it.

"O-o-of course. 'll be back in a minute… Sorry" she squeaked, getting up and going to the kitchen with fast little steps.

Right now, she didn't think that Mycroft had thoroughly swept her apartment. If he'd had, she was knew they wouldn't have had the same conversation. It didn't mean it was safe, however. The man might have a little less practice than his brother in deducing everything from the most menial things, but if she was sure of one thing, it was that if he took a closer look, he might see something. After all, she wasn't always mousy.

She boiled the kettle and arranged the china on a tray. Instead of the Marriage Frères tea – yeah, she knew it was French luxury tea, not English, but she liked what she liked – she took out the most inane tea she had in her cupboards. After all, this wasn't like it was a friendly visit. She came back with everything and served Mycroft. She didn't take anything for herself, even if scalding water would be a good weapon. Instead, she clenched once more her hands, the slight weight of her scalpel once again comforting against her skin.

"Anyway, back to your relationship with my brother, Miss Hooper." Said Mycroft after a slight scowl at the subpar tea.

"W-w-what relationship? I-I-I don't… I mean, I'm nothing special." She said hurriedly, knowing that the blush on her face was not really act – and she really despised herself for it at the moment.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and took a look at her flat:

"Well, that's quite obvious Miss Hooper. Woman leaving alone in her thirties, no signs at any serious boyfriends, and quite ensconced in her ways. I'm fairly aware that you're not engaging in any secret torrid affair with my brother. Though, I'd have to say that I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a cat. No, what I meant was your working relationship." He said, the sneer evident in her voice.

She lowered her lashes in apparent defeat otherwise he would have seen the furious glint in her eyes. Of course, she felt relief that he hadn't noticed anything unusual. But the fact was, Molly Hooper was most of her life, and at being depicted like this she couldn't help but feel slighted. Anyway, if she didn't want to be manipulated in being Mycroft's lackey, she had to collect herself. So she lifted her eyes, mimicked a slight flinch and said:

"My work is confidential, I cannot discuss it." She said softly, as if she was trying to cling to professional ethic. She then lowered her gaze to her hands. The scalpel was still there, tight against her arm.

"Really?" asked Mycroft Holmes, sneering again.

She didn't lift her head, just shook her head in denial, looking at her lap, like a stubborn little girl. She knew what she looked like. Now, there was just hoping that Mycroft Holmes didn't like bullying poor little things. After a few minutes, the man sighed and got up:

"In that case Miss Hooper, I won't intrude any longer. Thank you for the tea." Said the government man before leaving.

Molly waited for the door snapping shut to get up and go lock it. She'd made it. She managed to fool Mycroft Holmes. She should feel exhilarated as she'd been when she'd given Sherlock one of her victims to experiment on. Instead, she felt drained. This was not what she'd imagined would be her life when she'd settled for a calm, boring career as a pathologist. Right now, the only thing she wanted was to take a long bath and sleep.

As she went to bed, she found herself reflecting on Mycroft Holmes. Despite skills that were a slight notch above Sherlock's, the man lost to his younger brother in terms of actual practice and thoroughness. Mycroft was just the most dismissive man she'd ever met and as soon as his opinion was made – which took under 10 seconds at most – he never went back. So he never dug under the surface of her awkward appearance. In a way, he was almost like Jim, so ensconced in the big game that he never sat down to focus on the tiny details. Especially, when they didn't compute with his logical reason. He'd never even grasp why people of their intellect would go and pass themselves for mundane for no logical reason. Yes, if she ever had a risk of being discovered it was by Sherlock. He might have less rough genius than his brother but he was the only one that would pick at any discrepancy despite what probability would tell him.

And yet, there was still a risk. She had to be under surveillance. She needed to be careful and make sure that nothing would contradict the version of her that Mycroft had built in his head. She sighed. She'd have to keep in writing in that stupid blog of hers that she'd started when drunk after a night out with Meena and Caroline. It had been a way to unload the stress of being ridiculous lovesick Molly. She'd written the most pathetic things, waiting to see if her brother would notice the sarcasm. But he hadn't commented on it and it had just sat there, sad and pitiful. She'd hoped that her brother would contact her and at least congratulate her for forging the dates of the posts. She'd even sent an email to Connie Price about lipstick – which she really didn't need any advice about, whatever what one obnoxious detective had to say about it. But nothing, and he must have known it had been there. Of course, now it made sense why he hadn't written anything. He wouldn't have wanted to attract attention.

The only thing that she could do now was to wait for everything to settle back to normal. Mycroft would soon conclude she was boringly normal and lift his surveillance. And also, she had to ensure he never came to her home again. And she knew how. A cat, she needed a cat. He'd been grateful for the absence of one. Must have been allergic to some extent. Yes, a cat. It would also reinforce his impression of her being a sad spinster. And with it, she would be able to go back to her merry life. Dear Lord, she really needed to get laid or maybe just kill someone. Yes, killing someone would be good, her scalpel couldn't afford to rust away.


	11. Flashback: Things one does when bored

_Hello, I know its been a long long time since I've published anything. I haven't forgotten this story and there is still much to come but my muse deserted (overwork does that to me). It's still flashback so sorry for those who are waiting for more sexual tension between Sherlock and Molly (don't worry, once we come back to present, we'll come back to it). I hope you enjoy this nonetheless._

 _I tried to stay canon-compliant (even to the actual blogs) but if you see something that is wrong, let me so I can find a way to fix it. :)_

 _SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH_

In the following weeks of Mycroft's visit – in her head, she always addressed him by his first name to deny him the formality he so craved – Molly's life had settled in a boring routine. She'd go to Barts, try and work, be interrupted by a bloody annoying detective, try to work again, be teased by her colleagues and maybe finally, go back at home to her new cat. Toby had been rescued – clearly the easiest solution – and was surprisingly easy to live with despite her clear lack of knowing how to care for a pet. Fortunately, the little kitten knew how to decrypt her mood and was mostly out of her way but cuddled against her when she was watching telly – which was probably the only moment when she'd appreciate it. If only, all recent additions to her life had been that easy to live with, she'd be quite happy. But of course not.

Normally, she'd say that the worst of it were probably the looks of sympathy she received from John Watson. She had to admit that she liked the guy. Not in a romantic and sexual way – unfortunately her tastes and her mind were so fucked up that she couldn't help but stay fixated on a certain man with angelic curls and devilish mouth. But he was a friend somewhat. So nothing had been more humiliating when she'd overheard Sherlock deducing to his blogger that her mood was most convenient for him to charm her out of fingers since "she was still mellowed and high on the sexual release she had last night and will react most favourably to light flirting and endeavour to provide him with everything he needed with little to no fuss". The fact that the detective was right was only the cherry on the cake.

But what was really starting to get at her was that she seemed stuck in a professional capacity. She was well behind on the article she was currently writing about saliva coagulation after death. Mike was already pointedly asking her if she was doing fine – and she knew it was just an altogether sneaky way to make sure that she would live up to his expectations as a prodigy pathologist. And yet, he didn't seem to be able to compute that her new babysitting role just got in the way. It really wasn't easy to be able to manage keeping up research and writing articles when obnoxious detectives kept coming in her morgue, not just for cases but also to start experimenting themselves. Yes, the fact that Sherlock found her experiments interesting was quite nice to hear but to have him actually there and trying to do the experiments with her was just getting on her nerves. The problem with him was not only his lack of scientific method – the man just didn't understand what real lab conditions testing was. No, the real problem was him getting over everything as if he was the one doing the research and not her. The other day, she was just fed up with his meddling that she actually sent him back to Baker Street with one of the heads just so she could be able to have her research back. Of course, pathologists weren't supposed to give body parts to any civilian driving the staff crazy and if she could always sweep missing fingers, toes or eyes under the carpet, a whole head would be much more difficult to explain. So she had to resort to recalling the lessons Jim taught her about hacking – she wasn't as good as him, not in the least, but she knew the few basics – and she'd manipulated Barts data banks so the head she'd provided wasn't recorded anywhere anymore.

That was exactly what she was currently doing when she saw a little pop up message on her phone. She checked and saw that there was a new message on her blog. Immediately she looked up the personal blog of Molly Hooper the frilliest and worst of taste blog she could ever imagine. Here there was. A new message from Jim from IT. She smirked at herself at the new way of communication with her brother. Her blog. The simplicity and deviousness of it was quite elegant in her mind. No matter Mycroft's surveillance, what could he find dubious about a meek girl being wooed through her blog by an IT guy from the same hospital? Yes, the idea was brilliant. Not that it wasn't weird to pretend in front of others that they had a romantic interest in each other but fortunately, they didn't have to do it much as they were both stuck in the night shift nowadays. She looked at the new message from Jim and smiled: time to get their new plan in action.

Really, if one thought about it, it was all Sherlock's fault. If he and Mycroft hadn't been taking all her fun from everything – Mycroft's surveillance keeping her from her hobby and Sherlock's presence preventing her from focusing on her work, she might have resisted Jim's tempting game. Of course, it had started with silly charades on Sherlock's blog by Jim and some taunting on her part on John's blog – she found it deliciously ironic that neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were the least curious about a new IT guy that just sprang from thin air. But now, they had come up with an entire game. A game where Sherlock would have to be smarter and faster than usual. Jim and she selected the cases to be solved. Jim had insisted to include her first murder, just to see if Sherlock could actually solve one of her killings. She had to admit that she wasn't quite a fan of the idea but she'd finally accepted with the counterpart that she'd be the one to choose all of the victims that would be strapped to the bombs – she very much disliked the idea of using innocents to do this despite Jim's taunting that she should trust her detective. So, they finally compromised: her first murder, the disappearance operations from one of Jim's competitors, the death of Connie Prince that would soon happen and finally as a taunt of Sherlock's lack of knowledge of the solar system, the forgery of a painting. Now, that everything was all set for the play to start, she went and served herself a cup of coffee before taking place in front of the telly. She checked her watch to look at the time and took a sip. Just then, the usual boring show on the telly was interrupted by a special flash of information. There, the first salve in their game had just been shot.


	12. Flashback: Little plays and great games

Hello all, so this is the final piece of the flashback that revolves around the end of series 1. Including the scene where Jim plays Molly's boyfriend. I hope you'll like my take on it. This is posted quite fast as I didn't have time to check it thoroughly as I have serious personal matters to deal with at the moment. The story will definitely continue but it might take sometime. Until then, I hope you like this.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHS

Of course, she should have seen it coming. She should have known that at some point, their little game was going to derail. Jim had never been good at following rules. There never was one game when they were young where he didn't try to cheat. It used to make her mad. Now, it was worse. She felt betrayed. He had twisted her trust in something ugly. And it all started with that meeting.

 _A few days back_

Molly had been coming back to the lab as she heard the shrill ringing of the computer analysing the composition of Carl Powers' eczema cream. Of course, she already knew what it was. After all, she was the one to put it there in the first place.

"Any luck?" she said a little breathlessly as she came to see the results on the computer's screen.

"Oh, yes." Replied gleefully Sherlock.

Molly fixed her eyes on the screen as a small shiver ran her spine. She checked out of curiosity the screen, even if she already knew what was on it. Everything to avoid looking at Sherlock. In the state of excitement she was in, she could give herself in a matter of seconds. She was still looking when a change in the light made her glance up. Jim was just at the door and coming in. What in the world was he doing here?

"Oh, sorry, I didn't…" he said apologetically. Well at least he was in character, thought Molly.

"Jim! Hi, come in. Come in." she said, the surprise in her voice not at all faked. Of course, she had to invite him in. It wouldn't do to break character. She could feel a crawling sensation at her neck. The stakes have been amped. She turned towards John and Sherlock and tried to settle her nerves.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." She said, unable to disguise the smug pride she felt at her detective. For all purposes, the detective and her blogger would put it on the count of her being proud of her boyfriend.

Jim immediately narrowed his eyes on Sherlock. If she didn't see it, she knew her brother enough to know that he was already evaluating their opponent.

"And…" she started as she looked at John. Yet, she let her voice trail as she hesitated to introduce John to her brother. She had never talked about the army doctor to Jim. There was something about Jim's taunts about Sherlock that made her uneasy about talking to him about John. As if she did, she would provide some ammunitions to her brother against the detective. As John looked at her somewhat exasperated at her pause, she realised that she'd waited too long. She apologised but as soon the word was out of her mouth, she knew they were ill-interpreted as John immediately introduced himself. Molly had to refrain from making a face at her faux-pas and hid it by looking at Jim. He seemed enthralled by Sherlock. She plastered a fake smile on her face as if waiting for the detective to acknowledge the new person in the room. And yet, in a way, she did wait for just that.

"Oh, hi. So you're Sherlock Holmes." Said giddily Jim. Molly had to look at the floor to refrain from giggling. Jim was very good at playing the awkward nerd. She sure that no one from his web would be able to recognise the dangerous criminal clad in Westwood in the clumsy almost creepy geek in jeans and t-shirts. "Molly's told me all about you." At that Molly shot him a glance. Her smile almost took a feral edge. The bastard, he was actually teasing her! "You on one of your cases?" finally asked Jim, moving toward Sherlock.

Molly avoided the look that John sent her way. The army doctor was shuffling his feet as if irritated. However, she didn't have the time just at that moment to deal with his bruised ego. She made a mental note to apologise to the man later. All the while, she made sure to introduce properly her supposed boyfriend:

"Jim works in IT, upstairs." That was true, at least it had been for the last few weeks. "That's how we met." Not really, no. "Office romance" she finished and to her, the deepened tone of her voice seemed curious and aloof, not at all credible. Neither was the little giggle she let out. At least, Jim's chuckle seemed OK. Get a grip, Molly Hooper, she told herself.

She looked briefly at Sherlock who had turned his head to survey her brother before returning to his microscope. She glanced at Jim, hoping they were doing fine in their impersonation.

"Gay." Said Sherlock interrupting their shared false mirth.

Molly immediately froze. It wasn't possible. Jim knew what they risked he would never. "Sorry, what, she said?" the worry creeping in her voice sounded quite authentic, because it was.

"Nothing. Um, hey." replied Sherlock, his eyes fixed on the slide that she knew had nothing more of interest now that the computer had found out the right molecule.

"Hi." Said Jim and Molly almost blanched at the look that Jim threw Sherlock's way. What was he doing? He was supposed to play her boyfriend, certainly not try and seduce her detective! What was he playing at? And then, he dropped the petri dish. Molly flinched, her thoughts racing in her head. Jim was going of script. He was trying to get one up on her. She looked from under her eyelashes at her brother. For god's sake, even his underwear were distinctly not what a straight man would have! Did he want to humiliate her? Was that his endgame? No, not Jim, never Jim. He was getting at something else, something she wasn't included in.

"Sorry, sorry." Said awkwardly Jim at the irritation of John who turn on himself and Sherlock who rolled his eyes from behind the microscope. Both of you and me, thought Molly as she kept her eyes lowered. "Well, I'd be better off." Said Jim as he made his way to her. "I'll see you at the Fox. About sixtish?" he addressed her.

Molly hoped that her big expectant smile with a slight bite on her lower lip conveyed the right message to her brother. Not "yes, I'm so happy to see you tonight." More something around "You better amp your caffeine dosage in the next few days, cause I might strangle you in your sleep". She nodded nonetheless at the fake date. But as soon as Jim was next to her with his hands at the small of her back, she broke eye contact, trying to dismiss the glint of fury in her eyes by false cheerfulness. Now, would he just leave! She thought.

"Bye, bye. Nice to meet you." Said Jim, his hand coming up to her shoulder and Molly had to refrain herself from not using her self-defence skills and break his wrist. So mad, she was, that she didn't bother answering him. It was finally John that broke the uneasy silence by a polite "You too." Finally, Jim left.

Molly took a second to recompose herself. This was what her father meant by improvisation. She could do it, she could save the situation and prevent this from exploding all over their faces. She dearly hoped that this wasn't another of Jim's scheme to get her in his business, because, if it was, she'd definitely punch him, right in his pretty face.

"What do you mean gay? We're together!" she said, not very confidently. But after all, she shouldn't be confident as mousy Molly in front of Sherlock Holmes great deductions. She let her smile go a little too big, her gestures take a little more room, as if trying to compensate for doubt gnawing at her.

Sherlock finally deigned to turn to her and meet her eyes.

"And domestic must suit you Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you." He said, his eyes raking dismissively over her.

A siren alarm sounded in her head. The bastard. Yes, she might have overindulged a little bit in the sweet department. After all, no one could plan this sort of brilliant murderous treasure hunt without a little fuel for one's brain.

"Two and a half." She answered, not at all amused. First Jim, now Sherlock, what was there with the two of them today?

"No, three." Said dismissively Sherlock, eyes once again back at his microscope. Oh she really was going to kill him.

Molly channelled all her anger and bruised ego back into her acting.

"He's not gay." She exclaimed. "Why do you have to spoil everything?" her voice betraying more than an inch of hysterics. "He's not, he's not…" she said lower, crossing her arms against her chest.

"What with that level of personal grooming." Questioned the detective, still not deigning to turn and confront her.

"Just because he puts a little bit of product in his hair? I put a little bit of product in my hair!" intervened John Watson and Molly could have kissed him. At least, one of the mal specimens of the discussion wasn't going to be an arsehole.

"You wash your hair. There a difference." Countered Sherlock and Molly felt her jaw drop at the hint of glee in his voice. Was he enjoying this? Seemingly destroying her romantic life? "No, no. tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Those tired, clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

Molly frowned at everything said Sherlock. This was all peripheral – except for the underwear, of course – but how could he call this deducing. It was a hunch at best!

"His underwear?" she asked, her disbelief clearly etched in her face.

"Visible above the waistline. Very visible. Very particular brand." Stated Sherlock. Molly could almost feel her head turn. How in hell was he familiar with the brand? Even she wouldn't have noticed it if Jim hadn't once joked that this was one of his pick me up underwear when he was feeling frisky. Did that mean that Sherlock was gay? Was that what Jim was trying to demonstrate to her? And yet, she'd been certain that he wasn't. That the fact that he had John as a flatmate was because he was dead certain, that, the army doctor, a man, wouldn't distract him from the Work.

"Plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish." Finally put Sherlock as he took the paper upon which was written the number.

Molly would probably have kept wondering at her detective's sexual orientation and Jim's reasons for this display if Sherlock hadn't brandished the paper in her face. Her eyes widened. This wasn't Jim from IT's number, this was Moriarty's number. At the sight of it, her brain derailed massively. This wasn't just a trick Jim was playing on her. As the thoughts started to crash into her head and change directions, she was barely aware at what Sherlock was keeping talking about. She looked at him for a second and suddenly it became clear. Giving his number as Moriarty could only mean something: Jim from IT had ceased to exist the moment he exited the lab. She had to get to him. Now, before he changed their game into something else. In this split second, her mind was made up and she fled the lab. She didn't care for the detective's and the blogger's opinion, right now she was just trying to prevent her world from falling apart.

Of course, she never could find Jim. He'd just disappeared into thin air and she knew that with that games of theirs, she couldn't go chasing after him. But she had quite a piece of her mind to share with him once he'd pick up the phone. At first, she was mad but she hadn't felt that her limits had been crossed yet. Sure, Jim had sprouted a mean prank on her with that little scene with Sherlock, but it hadn't really mattered. She made sure to get back at him and sent a tip to Sherlock about one of the cases – from her untraceable phone with her caller ID blocked. And that was when she saw it.

It was all over the news. The shocking information relayed by every radio, telly network and newspaper. For the fourth time when a civilian was strapped to a bomb, dependent on Sherlock Holmes' cleverness to stay alive, this time, it was a child. At first, she couldn't believe it. She froze in the lab as her eyes caught on the flashing news on the telly. Impossible. She selected every one of the victims herself, making sure that they got what they deserved. She never selected a child. In fact, the man that had been supposed to be in the bomb jacket was a sex predator. She felt herself go cold all over. This was a definite line that her brother had crossed. This wasn't just a little cheat. This was betrayal. The flash of fury and hurt that came over her left her shaking. She sat up heavily on a stool, trying to settle her trembling hands and barely managing it. She lifted her eyes from her fingers and started to think. Why would Jim do that? What did it mean? As her thoughts started to circle and crash together as a kaleidoscope, she took a deep breath to try and detangle her feelings from the facts. It took some time but when she came to the conclusion that Jim had twisted this little game of theirs to his own ends, she knew that she had the first piece of the puzzle. And then, patiently, she considered each and every motives her brother could have to do this. When she finally figured out his endgame, she had to set her teeth together not to erupt in a fit. Jim wanted to kill Sherlock; she could even guess at the time he would do it. That was the one and only solution that made sense. And she needed to prevent that. So she took her untraceable phone and did the one thing she thought she'd never do in her life. Her text was brief but she knew that each word carried the weight of a bomb.

 **Moriarty declined your request, I know. Try again tonight at 6:30 and don't forget to extend Old Vic's regards. More than that, make sure that the first thing you do.**

Now, there was just to hope that Ms. Adler was up to the task she'd given her. And that came the end of her shift she wouldn't hear about a fifth bomb exploding somewhere.


	13. Here we are

_OK, so normally with everything going on (bombing in Paris and personal stuff), I would have thought that I wouldn't have the time, energy or inspiration to update for a time (certainly not a story that's dark). And yet, here I am and with a new chapter. It seems that all these bad things happening around me just prompt me to get into the story. So here is another chapter (not that dark and angsty but not really fluffy either)._

 _Everything is owned by Moffat and Gastiss even if I wished I could steal it away (at least Molly, give me my Molly please... and probably Sherlock too ... and Moriarty... and Mary... and John... and everyone actually)._

 _Just a quick reminder where we were at before the 3 flashbacks: Sherlock tracked down Molly and Jim to Austria, unknowing that John had tagged along with the help of Mycroft. They discover that Jim's and Molly's mother might have had Sherlock under surveillance for a greater time than they'd thought. Molly presses John to have Mary come so she'd be safe. There are beginning of unravelling the lies that Molly told over the years and some tense (and by that I mean full on angry sexual tension) moment between Molly and Sherlock._

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHS

Molly was settled in the sofa in front of a fire, wriggling happily her toes in the dry warmth coming from the fireplace and trying to focus on her book. However, John Watson's pacing was keeping her distracted from her reading. She had almost broken the silence several times already but just one look at the former army doctor told her all she needed to know that he wasn't in the mood for further explanations. She sighed as once again her eyes were caught by his glowering march, earning herself a furious glare from the man. This was a statement of how much John was upset. The man wasn't one for fidgeting or expressing physically his discomfort. No, that was much more Sherlock's avenue. To try and shake her dark thoughts, she turned her head to Jim. He was settled in a chair, a computer on his knees and headphones on his head, probably composing another one of his orchestral pieces. Completely immersed in his own world, he didn't shed any shard of attention to the dear doctor, knowing well that the man wouldn't dare leave until his wife was safely at his side. Molly knew it as well, however, she was preoccupied by much more than John Watson's actions for the next half hour and the state of his sanity was one of them. She just hoped that Mary's presence wouldn't be the thing to tip him over the edge. No one liked a demented soldier, particularly if one threw in the mix two sociopaths, a former assassin and a serial killer. As her mind wandered and reflected on how the meeting of such individuals would be more appropriate to a group session at an asylum for the criminally insane, she could feel the corners of her lips lift in morbid humour. Yes, she could easily imagine what a group session of all of them would look like. From Sherlock's line about being a high functioning sociopath, to John's psychopathic limp when not in perpetual mortal danger or Jim's amusement at organising crimes, the doctors would have their job's laid before them. Hello, my name is Molly Hooper and in my spare time I like to read, drink expensive tea and also hunt down and execute sexual predators. Her lips twitched a little more and she ducked her head to avoid upsetting John further.

Finally the front door clicked shut and she got up as John shot up to his wife. He took his wife in his arms in an unusual demonstration of emotion and almost knocked the both of them into Sherlock who was following carefully behind Mary. Molly immediately focused on Sherlock as he sidestepped and rolled his eyes at John and Mary. But as his eyes came to her, she couldn't help but lower her gaze. While she didn't like this show of demureness, she was unsettled by Sherlock's presence and the odd change in their dynamics. Somehow it seemed that her mind had trained itself so that her default response to the detective was coyness and reserve when she'd never had been any of those things. To distract herself from the rush of unwanted emotion and reaction, she went to Mary and helped her to divest herself from her coat. She ignored the dark look sent her way by John as she suspended Mary's coat and made her way to the kitchen to prepare some tea. Passing next to Jim, she saw him staring at the reunion between the three friends with a bemused look on his face. She couldn't help but tease her brother as she sat down on the arm of his chair:

"Not used to that level of affection, are you?" she said sotto voce.

"Oh, you'd be surprised at the level of affection Serbian thugs show to one another… No it's just that… Are they aware that they're just giving away their pressure points?" whispered back Jim.

Molly almost chuckled at that. Sometimes, Jim was almost prudish when it came to such displays. She couldn't resist and placed a small kiss at the top of the head of her brother, to which he responded with a glare. She patted his shoulder then.

"Jim, I think that everyone in this room is well aware of each other pressure points. After all, it's not like we haven't played on it all over the years." She replied with a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. As she got up, she felt Jim's hand on her arm.

"Stay here. I'll go and make the tea. You deal with… all this." He said with a small grimace of distaste.

As her brother left, she settled in his place and pushed his computer and his headphones on the floor. Mary and John made their way to the sofa and sat, soon joined by Sherlock, who had Mary's case in his hand. Sherlock just put the case next to the sofa and settled himself awkwardly on the sofa. He didn't want to be on the chair facing hers she realised with a pinch at her heart. She then mentally shook her head. More probably, he didn't want Jim sitting next to his two best friends. As Mary smiled at her with what could only be described as a bashful and relieved smile, Molly couldn't help but grin back. Somehow she felt less alone with Mary present. She knew that John would like nothing better at the time than throw her and Jim to the wolves and Jim, himself, would rather put a bullet into the detective and his blogger than have them tag along. As for Sherlock, she didn't know where he was at. The only person she was sure was on her side, the side where they all worked together to control the situation was Mary. Not only were they friends – the Magnussen ordeal had brought them together like nothing else could have – but she was smart. She must have reasoned that they all were each other pressure points and they'd better stick together until the problem was solved. Molly felt some relief wash through her at the thought. She didn't say anything, though: John was trying to assert if his wife was hurt in anyway and was concerned about the health of their future child.

Jim came back with a tray and settled it on the table. Sherlock's hand immediately went to the teapot and with an undecipherable look to Molly, started to serve the tea. Fortunately, she knew how to make sense of minute expressions and took the first cup of tea. She blew on it before drinking, demonstrating that Jim didn't poison the beverage. At that, Sherlock relaxed fractionally and Jim rolled his eyes. But she couldn't blame her detective. One doesn't trust easily a man that tried to blackmail you into suicide. Sherlock kept on serving the tea. Mary with an audible moan lent down to retrieve two cups of tea, one of which she gave to John. John fussed about her but Mary made dismissive gesture that everything was alright. John shot her another look and then took a sip of his tea. He then resumed asking Mary if she was OK and blocked out the other people in the room as if he could only be bothered by one thing at that moment. Molly looked at the couple and drank her tea, wondering when would be the moment when they'd start discussing what had brought them together. She tried to look at Sherlock without him noticing it but instead of a Sherlock lost in his mind palace, the reason for which she assumed that he remained silent, she met the eyes of a very focused and present detective. She felt a shiver travel down her spine at the intensity of his gaze and wondered briefly what was going on in his head. Was he regretting involving himself in her problem?

Molly was startled when John started to stutter and babble incoherently before falling asleep. Immediately, Sherlock was at his side and taking his pulse. After a few moments, he retracted his hands from John's neck and sighed in relief. Immediately Molly went on high alert. What was going on?

"Did you drug John? Again?" she asked with a point of hysterics in her voice. Her mind was in turmoil. Why would Sherlock do that? Or was it Jim? She quickly glanced at her brother who looked a little puzzled.

Sherlock turned sharply to her, his face set in a furious scowl:

"Oh please, for what reason would I drug John?" he hissed. "What makes you think that it isn't your dear psychopath brother?"

Molly looked once again at Jim, whose face was lit by a strange mix of glee and surprise. But as all of the faces turned to him, he quickly recomposed himself in a mask of quiet disinterest.

"Not only I haven't touched the teapot since it came to the table but what would be my motive? You're already mixed up in this mess…" shrugged Jim. Molly refrained herself from shooting him a dirty look, knowing that it wouldn't help. Sherlock at this only narrowed his eyes and his lips curled in sarcasm.

"Oh, I don't know. You're so _changeable!_ " He sneered, clearly referencing some chat he probably previously had with Jim.

Molly took a deep breath, her mind scrambling for something to keep the explosive situation from escalating when Mary interrupted the two men.

"Calm down boys, I drugged John." Said Mary matter-of-factly as she sipped her own tea, having braced the sleeping John into her lap.

Three pairs of questioning eyes turned to her and she rolled her eyes.

"Oh well. You've seen John. Between him having a nervous breakdown right now and him sleeping off most of his anxiety for the next 8 hours, I think the second solution is best. And it gives us time to discuss." Mary said, her eyes taking a steely glint.

"You mean it gives us time to decide on _your_ cover story?" said Jim, tilting his head on the side as he observed Mary.

Mary shook her head and replied:

"I'm done lying to John, I'll tell him if he wants to know. What I mean is I need to know exactly what we're dealing with."

"So you can decide whether you and John stay or if you try and start a new life somewhere else until we've taken care of everything." Said Sherlock, his eyes shuttered.

Mary turned to him and then Molly. She briefly glanced to Jim but shrugged. He didn't matter after all. What she needed was her friends' agreement for this. Molly looked at her and smiled sadly:

"Of course Mary, if you'd rather go, we'll help you." She softly said, patting Mary's hand. Sherlock just shrugged and didn't say anything.

Mary felt relief wash over her. If need be, she'd be able to protect her husband and future family. Tears came to her eyes and she caressed her belly before a quick pat to the neighbouring head of her husband, blaming the sudden surge of emotion in her unbalanced hormones.

"Thank you Molly. Now, tell me all about that bogeyman that has a criminal mastermind, a prolific serial killer and the most sociopathic consulting detective huddled together in hiding."

And with that Jim and Molly started their tale. A tale that started with a beautiful love story and wedding with equally beautifully gifted children. But while the bride was pretty, while the groom was strong and while the children were gifted, it didn't mean that they lived happily ever after. No, after all, all tales deserve their old fashioned witches, especially if they are the mother of the children. Jim was the one to talk with some interjections from Molly. He really had a gift for telling stories after all. At the end of the tale, all of them were in sombre spirits as they all pondered the task in front of them. Finally, Mary released another sigh and said:

"Well, I see we have quite a journey into Mordor." She said with a sad smile at the corners of her lips. "But I guess plans can be discussed once John is rested and awake. Sherlock, Molly, care to help get him in our room? I imagine that in this mansion, there is a room for us…"

Jim snorted and got up to take the tray back to the kitchen. Molly and Sherlock came to the side of John, both avoiding carefully looking at each other. As the two lifted deftly the army blogger off of Mary's lap and started to carry him toward the stairs, Mary couldn't help but quip:

"You're good at this. I'll remember it in the future, if we need to move…" she started.

"…a corpse?" quipped Molly and Sherlock.

"No, move out from our flat." Smiled Mary.

The two carriers let out a little "oh" of admonished surprise and shared a quick look before resuming their task. When the finally settled John in one of the spare bedrooms, Molly murmured about getting some clean linens for the bed. Mary who was once again checking the pulse of her husband, turned to face Sherlock. He looked at her for a short moment and finally said that he'd get the luggage. Mary thanked him and lovingly caressed John's forehead. She turned when Molly said from behind him:

"He's going to be mad, you know."

"Oh, yes. But it's OK. Don't worry." Replied Mary.

"Really?" asked Molly almost nervously.

"Yeah. After all, last Christmas, John didn't stay with me. No, he let his _pregnant wife_ , drugged with an unknown chemical agent, in the care of a homeless junkie to go and sell state secrets." Mary turned her head to smile at Molly. "I think I can deal with his pouting."

Molly quirked an eyebrow before smiling back. "Indeed. You're very good at this Mary." She said teasingly. "I'll remember it if I need to guilt someone into doing something."

Mary chuckled and replied. " Oh please, do."


End file.
